


Hall of Fame (Supernatural/Pacific Rim)

by chucks_prophet, shalinabianca



Category: Pacific Rim (2013), Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Pacific Rim Fusion, Angst and Feels, BAMF Mary Winchester, Castiel Almost Accidentally Kills Dean, Charlie Ships It, Cross-Posted on FanFiction.Net, Dysfunctional Family, Eventual Castiel/Dean Winchester, Everyone Is Alive, Gadreel is a Cinnamon Roll, John Winchester's A+ Parenting, Lucifer's Called Nick, M/M, Marshal John Winchester, Minor Violence, Sam Is So Done, Sam Winchester Needs a Hug, Winchesters Live In California, except mary - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-29
Updated: 2016-06-06
Packaged: 2018-05-10 07:21:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 21,844
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5576452
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chucks_prophet/pseuds/chucks_prophet, https://archiveofourown.org/users/shalinabianca/pseuds/shalinabianca
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam and Dean Winchester hunt monsters and protect the world from a particular kind of apocalypse. Or, that one Pacific Rim AU that everyone has been waiting for.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Buzzcut Season

**Author's Note:**

> We've been working on this fic since June'15, and it's finally ready for the world to see. Enjoy! Special thanks to Kripke, Beacham, and del Toro for being so good at what they do.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The death of Mary Winchester all but tore her family apart. Sam and Dean learn to live with an absent father as more Kaiju sightings happen. They join the Pan-Pacific Defense Corps as a big 'fuck you' to their dad, John, who just so happens to be the marshal.
> 
> Their days at the Jaeger Academy aren't so boring, as it seems. There are friends, enemies; the good, the bad, and everything in between.

 

Dean never grew to like being known solely as “Winchester’s boy.” At least, that was what he would always seem to complain about; Sam couldn’t have cared less.

Back in the day, when Sam and Dean were younger, both of their parents were the equivalent of rock stars in their eyes; upholding the Winchester and Campbell family name; fighting for their country with the Marines and the U.S. Air Force.

There was a time when John and Mary were both gone simultaneously and a family friend of theirs, Bobby Singer, had taken care of the boys (“Stop bein’ an idjit, both’a ya!” “Idjit! Idjit! Idjit!”). He became their favorite non-blood-related uncle after that.

There was a time when the elder brother revered in being called one of John and Mary Winchester’s kids. It was an acknowledgement of their parents’ efforts in protecting and serving the country. To Dean, it was one way people told him his parents really were heroes. (It could be said that, at one time or another, the firstborn wanted to follow in his mom and dad’s footsteps, to be part of something bigger than himself.)

There was a time when Dean was around four years old where he wanted to be a protector. Their first house in California was broken into at night: John was undeniably furious (“Those damned thieves!”) and Mary was a little more so (“If they’d touched my babies, I swear…”) and little Sammy couldn’t stop crying. The cops had offered to make rounds in their neighborhood with police cruisers every few hours, and when he saw how much that relaxed his parents, Dean immediately said that he wanted to be a police officer. Mary just smiled, but John went out the next day to get him one of those plastic officer badges. Dean would always wear it around his preschool; acting like he was one tough son of a bitch, bringing justice to sand-throwers and animal cracker thieves.

There was a time when Dean was a little older, old enough for him to help with his brother; John had driven him and Sam to school in his 1967 blacktop Chevrolet Impala. They’d passed a house fire, and Dean saw the big, red fire truck and all the firemen putting out the danger. Sam had craned his neck to watch the firefighters just as Dean had.

“Look, Sammy!”

“That fire’s big.”

“Don’t worry. The firefighters got it. Right, Dad?”

John looked at them from his rear-view mirror and smiled. He knew then that Dean wanted to be a fireman.

When the boy wanted to be one for Halloween that year, John found it difficult to say no. Consequently, Sam had injured his leg playing T-ball and was wheelchair-bound, but John and Mary turned a boring, old box into one _badass_ fire truck. Dean wheeled his baby brother around their neighborhood and scored the biggest haul they had ever gotten.

There was a time when Dean was a sophomore in high school, and the National Guard came to talk to the students in his Spanish class: That was when Dean told his parents that he wanted to enlist, like they did once upon a time.

At the time, all he was thinking about was being similar to his mom and dad, to be strong like them, and not to mention how much help it would be toward his college funds. Mary told him to think about it thoroughly before deciding, but John was all smiles and encouragement and he told him, “Make your old man proud, son.”

That was the same thing he _didn’t_ say when Dean joined cheer and wrestling; John was gone a lot in that time, but the kid loved his dad nonetheless.

There was a time when John Winchester loved his kids, too. But that was all before his wife, the mother of his children, had been killed in an attack in 2013.

This day was worse than 9/11. Dean couldn’t help but to remember it: August 11. He had a little over a month until he was to go to university, and his mom and dad had taken the weekend for some “bonding-time” between them and the boys; they had planned to head up to northern California because John was always complaining about how it was “our last few weeks with Dean, Mary. Let’s treat the boys; they deserve it!”

The Winchesters made it to San Francisco at around noon, had lunch, and then headed to the ferry that would have taken them straight to Alcatraz.

Long story short: They never made it to Alcatraz.

Longer story even shorter: Sam and Dean were both terrified shitless.

First, there was a 7.1 ‘quake. Then, that monster science experiment had taken land and destroyed the Golden Gate Bridge.

Buildings had been trampled. Vehicles had fallen from the bridge. People were everywhere, screaming, crying, scared for their lives. Police had started showing up; then the National Guard; then the Army; then the Air Force. Anyone and everyone still in active duty and still currently on the planet were called to attack it.

The city had become a war zone before Trespasser moved inland. Tanks were on the streets; jets were flying overhead; missiles were coming in from every direction. Tactical nukes were brought in when the Hellfire missiles proved useless. In the near-week it took to put down the beast, people had labeled it a “kaiju” and the military forces later code-named it “Trespasser”, for obvious reasons.

San Francisco. Oakland. Hayward. San Mateo. San Jose. An average of 2.5 million lives in those cities alone, and not all of them had made it out. However, if the National Guard hadn’t acted quickly, even more would have been killed.

Mary Winchester, a U.S. Air Force pilot, was in an F-17 fighter jet when she was hit. Some assumed the kaiju had taken her out, but a lot of others believed that one of the three nuclear missiles sent to annihilate the monster had finished the job.

Sammy was only fourteen. Dean was eighteen, ready for his first quarter at UCLA.

After Mary died, John vowed to destroy whatever the hell those monsters were and enlisted into the Pan-Pacific Defense Corps when it was fully formed. He’d become some sort of liaison for the Corps when he helped the two squints Frank Devereaux and Ellen Harvelle to get their funding for the Jaeger Program. (According to summary reports filed, John Winchester had an aptitude for bringing lifeless, mechanical arms to life.)

At the funeral of the lost soldiers and pilots after K-Day, Dean had witnessed his father break. The man that seemed at times hard as steel – the one who pushed both brothers to do their utmost maximum, as if there were nothing to fear – that man was gone. John Winchester wasn't himself; in his place was a vengeful husband, widowed by a woman who sacrificed her life to protect her children and her country.

Nothing was ever the same.

* * *

 

Whenever he could, Dean would come home from college. The oldest son watched as his father slowly distanced himself from the only family he had left. Although Dean knew losing his mom had taken a toll on his dad, John was supposed to be the strong one. John Winchester was a damn Marine vet and he sure as hell wasn’t acting like one.

Every once in a while John would disappear for days, or even _weeks_ , at a time for PPDC business, leaving Sam for some babysitter like Bobby to look after him. All the father would tell his sons was to be careful, to take good care of each other. Apparently, some tech development in Germany was more important than going home for even a few days to check up on his kids.

It wasn’t long until 2014 had come and gone with the winter snow.

Word quickly spread from the United Nations that the Jaeger Program was in tow, that there would soon be someone to fight those dreaded kaiju. When people heard that John Winchester was a part of it, Sam and Dean gained a sort of fame. For a while, it was flattering (Dean got thousands of new followers on Twitter, Instagram, and Vine; a generous amount of subscribers had flocked to Sam’s Youtube channel), but when people started asking if they’d ever be able to meet their dad, both brothers began to wonder: When _will_ their dad come home?

Weeks had passed after Dean’s nineteenth birthday before John came home to California, but all he seemed to want to talk about was the Jaeger Program and his assignment to the Japanese Jaeger, Coyote Tango. He was, like Dean had already suspected, more into his new job than the lives of his own flesh and blood. But neither son said anything about it; they were happy their father had even come home to spend time with them, albeit a short one; relieved that his deployments and fighting kaiju hadn’t left him KIA.

Everything was fine until Sam’s sixteenth came around. Dean was in his college dorm room, studying for a big sophomore-class test, when his kid brother called him out of nowhere. “ _Dad hasn’t been home in a few days_ ,” Sam had told him, sounding worried off his ass. “ _He promised that he’d be coming home, Dean_.”

Dean tried getting in contact with his father the next day after his test (on which he promptly received a ‘B-‘), and only when he reached Mike Guenther, John’s old Marine buddy and current co-pilot, did he finally get to talk to him. “ _Things have been busy_ ,” was John’s excuse. Typical. Dean couldn’t help but to roll his green eyes. The son offered, “You could’ve called.”

“ _I’ll make it up to you and Sammy when I get back_ ,” the father replied.

Dean huffed. "When will that be? Next century?"

" _Soon. I promise._ "

“You shouldn’t make promises you can’t keep, Dad.” There was evidence of poisonous venom dripping from Dean’s words, and he hung up. For nearly two hours, the firstborn had lied back on his mattress among his notebooks and notes, trying not to hate his father. How many times would one man break his promises? How many more times would Dean buy into that bullshit, and expect things to be fixed up all neat with a false sense of everything?

That was the last straw. After a few more weeks, Dean Winchester dropped out of college to take care of his little brother. Sam had argued with Dean, for him not to leave his studies, but he had to make sure his kid brother was okay.

When John finally did make it home, father and son would only exchange simple conversation during the day, but it was when Sam would go to bed at night that Dean and John truly talked. Or would “argue” be a better word to describe what happened?

Fought. “Fought” would suffice.

Dean remembered telling his father one night, “I know losing Mom was hard on you, Dad – It was hard on _all_ of us!” It was probably their tenth heated argument; he couldn’t keep count. He couldn’t remember how many circles they had rounded with their repetitive words. “You can’t keep running to those damned Jaegers to avoid the pain. The Drift can’t do _shit_ to take it away.”

John had a look in his eyes that caused his oldest to bite back his tongue. “Don’t use that tone with me, Dean. The least I deserve from you is respect. I’ve done _everything_ I could for you boys.” The volume of his words didn’t rise in anger, which only made Dean aware of how angry he truly was.

“You could have done _more_!” the son hissed under his breath, glaring at his father. His hands balled to fists and he could feel a deep, seething anger building up in the pit of his stomach. Dean detested the feeling. “You’re so caught up in avenging Mom’s death that you’re – _ignoring_ your own kids. Sam doesn’t deserve this! Buck up for once in your life, and take responsibility for—”

The sound resonated in the room, nearly echoing in the dead silence.

Dean’s father wasn’t really a drinker. Hell, he rarely drank anything harder than beer. Sure, he went drinking with his buddies on occasion, but Dean wouldn’t go far as to say he was an abusive, beer-bellied drunk. When he was younger, Dean remembered staying up at night, listening to his mom and dad arguing sometimes. John never hit her, but in the mornings he might be in the garage working on the car or would have gone to a motel to blow off steam, and his mom was always sullen, and Dean would always hug her and say, “It’s okay, Mom. Dad still loves you. I love you, too. I’ll never leave you.” Mary would offer his little angel some pie and everything would be okay.

Maybe that was why Dean was caught completely off guard when John took a swing at him. He had stood there in their living room, frozen; the nerves in his skin tingling and stinging as they registered the pain from where the face of his father’s palm had been. It must have been one of those rare nights when John downed something harder than beer.

Dean said nothing more to the man who stood in front of him with the face of a father he used to look up to. He steeled himself and walked to the staircase. Even though he was shaken, angry, shocked, furious – even though he was all of that and more, Dean took light steps, just so that he wouldn’t wake up his baby brother.

When Dean passed Sam’s room, he saw the still open lights from under the closed door. Cursing under his breath, the eldest knocked softly against the wood. He turned the knob and stuck his head in, meeting the eyes of the brother, who was propped up against his headboard, donning a deep frown. His cheeks glistened slightly as they hit his lamplight, and he sniffed, using the back of his hand to wipe away the wetness. “You know Dad didn’t mean it, right?” Sam’s voice cracked, and Dean could tell he was trying hard to hold the waterworks.

“Yeah,” Dean sighed, voice monotone. Changing the subject, he ordered, “Get some rest, asshat. You got school in the morning.”

“‘Night, jerk.”

Nodding, Dean gave his brother a small smile. Sam was gonna be okay. He turned to close the door, but just before he did so, Dean heard Sam say, “I love you, bro.” Without turning, he replied with, “Love you, too, Sammy.”

* * *

 

It was a little after Sam’s seventeenth birthday that Dean had an idea: It was time to join the ranks of the Rangers. What was a better form of shoving the bird in their dad’s face than being great Rangers, even better than he was? Their father had done over two handfuls of drops by mid-2016, and after the Onibaba attack he was forced into retirement after two years of active duty. His commanding officer, Secretary-General Dustin Kreiger, promoted him to PPDC Command as the Program’s Marshal after a couple of weeks.

The world was winning – _really_ winning. As much as he hated to say it, the human race’s chance of survival had increased when their father joined.

Marshal Winchester has crushed many a man’s dreams before and after his promotion, but he hadn’t managed to break the spirit of a premature twenty-one-year-old with more than a few bucks to his name. Dean Winchester was going to be a Jaeger Ranger come rain, hail, or shine.

Consequently, he waited until after his kid brother’s birthday to pitch the idea. Sam would be harder to convince. The younger Winchester craved adventure, but only as far as literary context. Hell, the kid practically coddled his books (“It’s the smell, Dean; I want to preserve the smell.” “You say that to all your dates, Sammy? No wonder there’s never a second.”). Never would he show any remote interest in venturing out into the real world that was literally bursting at the seams with _Indiana Jones_ -level awesomeness.

Only what Sam didn’t know was how predictable he really was. After seventeen years of living with his ass, Dean’s learned he was extremely competitive. If he offered him the idea in the form of, say, a _Jeopardy_ question, then Sam just might tag along.

“This is an international program affiliated with the PPDC, based in Hong Kong as a defense against the Kaiju.”

Sam, who was slumped over the kitchen chair, gaped at his brother like he’d lost his mind. Seriously, the dude was reading _The Great Gatsby_ and he had the nerve to judge? He muttered, “What?”

Dean imitated the sound of a play buzzer, and then went on to say, “The correct answer was: what is the Jaeger Program?”

“And?” Sam questioned, almost prodding, leaning his forearms onto the table. “You know what it is; I know what it is—”

“That’s not the point, Sammy—"

“‘Sammy’ is a chubby twelve-year-old,” the owner of the name huffed. “It’s just Sam, okay?”

“No, it's still Sammy, ‘cause I see you’ve got a little chub left over, right there...” Dean laughed a throaty laugh, nearly snorting when he nudged his little kid-brother’s chin, who in turn slapped his hand away. “Let’s go, then.”

Finally getting rid of the look of judgment, Sam blinked at his older brother. “Go _where_ , exactly?”

Dean scoffed. “‘Where’, he says. You’ve got to be kidding me, Sam.” From behind the book cover of _Gatsby_ , he pulled out a propo pamphlet from the Pan-Pacific Defense Corps. “You and I both know that it’s almost Recruitment Day.”

Sam shrugged, looking blankly at Dean. It proved evident that the boy with floppy hair wasn’t at all impressed; the event had begun to roll around annually, and it marked the beginning of the weeks wherein the Winchester boys didn’t see their father. “What about it?” he muttered, raising a brow curiously.

“Dammit, Sam!” Dean slumped back into his seat. “It’s almost Recruitment Day! This is only the second year. We're gonna enlist. Does _every_ kid your age get slower when they grow up?”

It took approximately three seconds for Sam to fully understand at what Dean was hinting. “And we’re going to apply for the Defense Corps, why? If we do get recruited—”

“You mean, _when_ we do.”

“—what are we going to do about school? Graduation? _College?_ ”

“Been there, done that. You ain’t missing much, kid. We’re joining the Rangers.”

* * *

 

Alaska seemed like a long ways away with almost two and half thousand miles of ocean to cross, from the likes of Los Angeles, California. The Jaeger Academy was widely known to be within the area of Kodiak Island; also known to Dean as “stark white and freeze-your-ass-off cold.” Dean hated cold things to his very core. Of all places to set up their cadet academy, why did it have to be Alaska? Whatever happened to sunny California? Or Mexico? Not that China wasn’t a swell place to base the main ‘Dome, at least there would be something to do outside of full-time Jaegering. (He was thinking more along the lines of beach blondes, maybe with Christmas hams under their skirts, but he wasn't picky.)

Come to think of it, loads of places wouldn't do him much good. Whether he was sailing the high seas or vast plateaus, turbulence was not Dean’s best friend. Of course, he would never put that down on the recruitment papers. A promising candidate for a Jaeger pilot afraid to fly; now _that_ was one surefire way to get the early boot, Marshal’s son or not.

One plane ride and pesky baggage claims later, the Winchester boys had made land on pure, Alaskan territory. When the brothers arrived, the Academy was already packed. There were people everywhere; would-be hopefuls from all around the state, the country, the globe. Humans of all shapes, sizes, backgrounds, and what-have-you were wide-eyed. The center’s linoleum flooring was being stomped on by thousands of lonely, cracked soles.

As Sam and Dean walked to the back-end of the recruitment center, the latter man’s eyes traveled from person to person, all hopes and intents of joining the PPDC growing even stronger. He turned to his brother, commenting, “I can’t believe you actually came with me, man.”

The younger of the two huffed out a cynical laugh, shaking his head as he followed behind his brother. “I’m sure you would’ve dragged me kicking and screaming.”

"Spoilsport Sam, always the one to assume the worst in people," Dean said in mock-offense.

"Even though it's totally true."

The older brother made a _pfft_ noise with his mouth. "Who do you think you're talking to? I'm Dean friggin' Winchester, of course it's true."

While the Winchesters waited in line to check-in and get their identification cards, they both noticed the piercing, judging eyes of the surrounding recruits. Dean consciously puffed out his chest, squaring his shoulders. Sam kept his chin up, his jaw going taut as he stood firm on his feet. Neither brother shrunk into themselves, or avoided eye contact with the staring strangers. It wasn’t in their nature; they were raised like good soldiers, and weakness was not an option.

It wasn’t a question if many were aware of their father being the cause of them growing up quicker than they were supposed to. John Winchester had only recently been appointed the Marshal to the Jaeger Program branch of the Pan-Pacific Defense Corps; prior to that, he was a Ranger himself, alongside Mike Guenther, defending their side of the pond with as much of a thunderous passion as they did out of the Conn-Pod. If that wasn’t impressive enough on a résumé, the senior Winchester had started his days as a high school drop-out before enlisting into the Marines, and later marrying USAF pilot, Mary Campbell.

It was safe to say that John was a soldier inside and out, both in and out of battle. His sons would vouch for it.

At one of the eight opened windows, Sam and Dean gave their names promptly. The worker, a curly-haired guy in his twenty-somethings, was only mildly surprised to be in the presence of the Marshal’s kids. Poor kid must have been there since before dawn.

“Winchester, Dean and Samuel,” he said, reaching out with their ID cards. “Follow everyone to the auditorium for the opening address.” Sharp, blue eyes rested above darkened bags above his cheekbones. Dean followed the line of his arm, discreetly examining the sleeve of tattoos. Oskar, the worker’s name tag read, pointed towards the opened double-doors off to their side.

Sam and Dean stuck together as they entered the impressively large auditorium, waiting for the Opening Ceremony to officially begin. “Look at all these people,” Sam sighed in awe of the large throng of countless recruits. “Some of these guys look a lot more serious than us.”

His little brother’s frame seemed small in comparison to the rest of the hopefuls in the place, Dean noticed, but he rested a firm, reassuring arm over his shoulder anyway. “Most of them _are_ a lot more serious than us.” Chuckling, he finished with, “Hey, _no pressure_ ,” which in turn earned him a shove from Sam. “We’ll have a laugh, we’ll get ditched in the first cut, and then we’ll go home.”

“Not under Dad’s watch. If both of his kids wash out, I’ll give you three guesses as to what he’d do to us.”

Dean quieted down then, only managing to keep his cocky smirk plastered onto his lips. After all, Sam was right.

Everyone was called to the front of the stage around seven o’clock. The large podium was in front of the PPDC insignia, with the Jaeger Academy emblem on its front. Flags hung from the high ceiling. Soon, attention was focused as the Marshal walked out to stage. His hair was cut short as for uniform regulation, his once scruffy facial hair gone, and his dark blue suit seemed to be evenly pressed. Like how a collected and professional leader was supposed to look. To the outside eye, John Winchester was the prime epitome of a clean-cut man, a role model, a perfect father-figure.

If only the world knew...

Under his breath, Sam muttered, “Speak of the Devil and he shall appear.”

Over the speaker, Marshal Winchester introduced himself before going into the speech. “This isn’t summer camp, folks. If it seems like we’re trying to break you, it’s because we are. The kaiju won’t hold back, neither will we.”

Dean bit back a sneer, keeping his thoughts internal. _At least he’s being honest._

Marshal Winchester continued on without hesitation: “We will grind you to dust, and only when we fail to do so will we find the stuff of legend – like the Campbells and the Harvelles – and all those whose names will live forever for having what it takes to be the knights of our time, standing watch at the edge of our world – ready for the dragons ahead.”

As their father continued to speak, a few paparazzi caught sight of them. Soon enough, there were camera flashes and numerous amounts of people muttering quietly to themselves again.

Attention – that was something both brothers loathed, as well.

* * *

 

Compatibility: It was something of which only a select few had the capability. It was being fluent in a language of both the mind and body; working through the instincts of both oneself and their partner. Marshal Winchester, even before his new title was appointed, had influenced the creation of pilot assignments, later conceiving the Kwoon Combat Room. He figured that being able to anticipate an opponent’s actions would provide faster leeway in finding Drift Compatible partners.

In the Kwoon, there were handfuls of Jaeger pilot hopefuls. As part of their training, hand-to-hand combat and hanbos were required to be used. To them, their days would continue chronically: conditioning, memorization, maintenance; a more continuous buzz that tested the recruits through physical and mental demands. Hell Week was made more into a month, for the sake of accommodating to find the perfect candidates.

First cuts were soon to be determined. The class of 2017 were on the ropes about it because they all knew, that although many people aim to join the ranks of Rangers, a lot more don’t make it. (Those cadets that are cut are turned into transfers; they go to different curriculum as Officers or other staff in the PPDC.) Many cadets like Dean Winchester were hell-bent on making sure that they were one of the Greats, one of the Rangers, one of the heroes the world relied on. However, Dean never considered himself a true fighter. So, when he was taken to the Kwoon, where his opponent was a man with limbs as thick around as his neck, there was no denying there was a slight leakage in his pants.

"You wanna tango, Chief?" The tone of his voice barely registered above a threat, but Dean wasn't risking anything. Even with the length of the hanbo being twirled in his hands, the guy looked like he could knock him out with one swing.

Dean’s opponent, Benny Something-Or-Other, was strong, but had little to no knowledge in contact sparring; the Winchester was used to the attack-without-a-plan types. Within seconds, the eldest had maneuvered his hanbo behind Benny’s leg and sent him onto a knee. The light-haired Winchester swiped down and immediately locked his muscles before making contact with the other man; their Fightmaster called 1 - 0.

Yeah, he never said he _couldn't_ fight.

They reset. Benny was nearly knocked down once more. He bit back, swinging his leg out from underneath him, effectively nabbing Dean square in the face. Dean groaned as he thrashed to the ground, adhering to the taste of metal.

1 - 1.

* * *

 

Sam Winchester hadn’t had much experience with fighting aside from the occasional bare-knuckled brawl at school. On the other hand, they wouldn’t last more than a few minutes, anyway.

The boy was remembering the old after-school matches with Dirk “The Jerk” MacGregor when Nick's elbow crashed into his jugular. Sam impeded the action by kneeing him in the crook of his spine, sending the sandy-haired giant flying onto his back. Sam proceeded to climb on top of him and take his punches.

The youngest Winchester was finding it hard to believe this guy had earned himself the nickname “Lucifer” during his short time at the Jaeger Academy. Apparently, on his good days, Nick Gage fought as if he were possessed by the Devil. People told Sam that you’d be able to see it in the guy’s eyes. By the time he was finished with him, Lucifer's outsides would be ready for the Fourth of July.

* * *

 

Benny scrambled to an upright position, fresh blood coming from the corner of his mouth, where Dean caught a clean hit. Tugging at the corner of Dean’s was a rare, yet complacent smile. The other man lunged out like he was going for another swing, but only proceeded to fall as his target jumped back. However, instead of falling face-first as his body willed him to do, his hands threw themselves out to catch his weight. The match ended with 3 - 1, in favor of the Marshal’s kid.

Benny huffed and extended his battered hand out to Dean. Given his colorful record, Dean wasn’t one for making latchkey friends, but hey, he just beat the living daylights outta the kid. The least he could do was lend him a hand before his candy-ass was the one wiping the floors of the Kwoon. “Good game, man,” Dean called, sporting a grin.

Under his tough expression and gruff facial hair came a broad smile, all genuine-like. “You too, brother.”

* * *

 

“See you in hell, pansy ass,” Nick spat, palming the shiner on his left eye with heavy disdain. He couldn’t fight (must have been one of his bad days, Sam thought smugly to himself), but like hell if the guy couldn’t kill you with those ice-cold daggers.

Sam had an oddly fortuitous feeling as the guy trudged away from a simple handshake with a slight limp; that he’d be seeing that unforgettable mug around again. Hopefully not in the same place. The _Hunger Games_ would be more suitable.

He retracted his hand, letting the dead weight fall back to his side. _So much for making friends in this godforsaken place._ As much as it pained him to say, at least he had his brother.

* * *

 

Dean fell to the floor with a _thud._ Getting beat up in hand-to-hand came fast and it came hard, no thanks to a fighter by the name of Ezekiel Novak. With a dull throbbing in his head, the firstborn son couldn't recall the last time he was the one hacking up blood. Whoever this guy was, he must have come from a family of soldiers preparing him for this very moment.

Much like the guy on the floor.

Ezekiel spoke like someone playing the role of the victimized hero when he said, "I don't want to hurt you."

Unfortunately, Dean's seen that play one too many times. He snorted, only resulting with him in more pain. "A real bang up job at that," he snarled, making the attempt to hide a sharp wince.

* * *

 

"I'm sorry." The blue-eyed stranger's fist came down with a thunderous bang, striking Sam's cheek. He wasn't angry, and he certainly wasn't evil. Sam's seen evil. The way he _,_ the _attacker_ , begged for mercy – it was almost as if he was compelled into fighting. Like one of those wind-up dolls you’d find in a tinker shop that's stuck in Kill Mode.

The second-born shook his head, sending his dampened bangs flying behind him. "Why?" he whispered through crusted lips.

Instead of answering, the fighter's fist came down again, this time harder and less apologetic.

* * *

 

Dean hit the floor head-first as the rest of his body slammed into the turf like a crash-test dummy. Outside of the Academy, jiu-jitsu would’ve been outlawed. Inside, it sufficed to say that just about every move from Japan and its neighboring countries was permitted, so long as it kicked the ass of anything that came through the Breach _._

The girl threw a lopsided grin at her rivaling opponent. “What was that last comment, about throwing like a girl?” Before she could properly gloat, Charlie Bradbury was lying in the same position next to Dean.

He pulled back his leg with a hiss and spat out a steady stream of blood. He made sure to smile as he muttered, “Never said anything about taking a hit.”

* * *

 

Kevin Tran was the name; failing with flying colors was the game. Sam felt bad for the kid, honestly. The five-foot-something Asian-American couldn’t have weighed more than a hundred pounds soaking wet; he had to know that he didn’t belong among the Rangers.

Unfortunately, being that Dean was heir to the Winchester throne the two brothers were locked and loaded into their fate tighter than NASA. Kevin had a chance at life. Instead, he was throwing terribly misdirected punches in some cadet academy.

Sam had him pinned to the ground. When the Fightmaster called 3 - 0, he let off and prudently, lent his hand out to his opponent. This time, his gamely generosity was returned. Sam turned away from the bruises on his knuckles. “Good game, man,” he said, shaking the other guy’s hand, and this time he meant it. “Sam.”

“Oh, I know who you are,” the dark-haired guy replied. There wasn’t a kind of jealousy or hatred in the statement, but more like an awed, envious tone. He was probably only a couple years older than Sam; closer to Dean’s age for sure. Kevin continued on to say, “Rangers and techs alike have been waiting for you and your brother to join since your dad made Marshal.”

Though Kevin didn’t outright say it to his face, Sam heard it in his words: _You’re tailored for this._

* * *

 

The date was July 12, 2016. It had been a little under a month since Recruitment Day. Their first trimester of training was not even _close_ to over, and Dean wasn’t sure how he felt about that. Where only a couple weeks had passed felt like months already in the minds of the cadets. Sam and Dean pushed through; so far, they both were still alive, which was a victory in and of itself.

The older son found it hard to make friends at first. Dean would argue that it was definitely _not_ due to the fact he wasn’t a likable person (at which, even facing that option, he laughed) or that the cadets were a little too off-put with the knowledge of the Winchesters being the Marshal’s only sons (there had been a person or two trying to get close to him, but Dean had sussed out their ulterior motive: Befriend the Marshal’s kid in hopes of not washing out).

More than a few cadets walked on eggshells around the two, however; Sam mentioned to his brother that they had probably heard of the rumors about their father’s parenting (or rather, lack thereof – which, quite frankly, were all true, but the world didn’t need to know any of the details). The Marshal was a man that was capable of being a good leader and an even better father; the problem lay in that he sometimes forgot about the latter part.

Whether or not he liked his father as much as he did when his mother was still with them didn’t matter when Dean could still say he loved John, albeit differently from before. Both he and his brother dealt with the loss of their mother long ago, and it was evidenced by Dean that, consequently, it was not the same case for their dear father.

Some people have said that the best place to think was the shower; Dean, on the other hand, always thought extremely well in presence of food. Although the Academy’s mess hall was just like any other mess hall made for any and all military facilities worldwide, Dean swore to whatever higher, otherworldly power that this one served the best grub. It was his passion for food that gave the firstborn a little wiggle room to befriend a couple of the other cadets. There was that girl, Charlie, who had kicked his ass back in the Kwoon, and there was also Benny, whose ass he beat within an inch of his life.

Camaraderie was a many splintered thing.

When the three of them sat down at a fairly vacant table, Dean’s little brother came soon after, carrying a large amount of food on his tray. “ _Dude_ ,” the eldest groaned aloud, green eyes blossoming at the marvelous spread before him, “how’d you manage to score _that_?”

“Dimples and puppy-dog eyes,” Sam answered lamely, forking a piece of beef into his mouth. “Works every time.”

Dean had stolen the tapioca pudding from Sam’s tray without much resistance, and it was then, much to everyone else’s amusement, that he remembered that they weren't alone. “Oh, yeah, hey. Sammy,” he called, tapping his brother on the arm. Motioning to the ripped southerner to his other side, Dean introduced, “Benny Laffitte.”

The owner of the name nodded at Sam’s small wave. Not very verbal, that one. That made him smarter than most of the new recruits.

Calling attention to the redhead seated with them, Dean continued, “And this little badass is Charlie Bradbury.”

“Bradbury...” he muttered, testing the name out for himself. The seventeen-year-old’s eyes suddenly lit up. “Oh! You’re the one who forged your recruitment papers!” Sam’s reaction was a long-ways away from what Dean had expected. He grumbled a mild ‘ow’ when Dean kicked him under the table.

Charlie turned nearly as red as her hair. Through a stiff smile, she announced, “Guilty as charged.”

“What’chu got that’s worth forgin’ for?” Benny inquired with a toothy grin. “Not a natural ginger?”

* * *

 

One of the other cadets had a confrontation with Sam in the mess hall; some older guy named Michael who was supposedly Nick’s older brother. Said something about not liking the way he was being looked at, Dean had heard. Whatever the case, the firstborn pushed his little brother behind him and decked the shorter brunet upside. It was a childish, bare-knuckled brawl that attracted the attention of the guards and brought Dean to see his father for the first time since they’d joined.

Suffice to say, Dean hated the Marshal’s office with a searing passion.

“What in the hell were you doing out there?” ordered John Winchester with a dark tone of voice. “The Corps has a code, Dean, a code _you_ have agreed to.”

Dean’s upper lip stiffened as he held back a snarky remark. Instead, he answered, “That Gage guy started it. If anything, you should be reprimanding _him,_ not me.”

“I need you to understand, Dean…” John’s voice appeared strained; forcefully lowered to channel his own emotions. “I can’t have you involved with anything that could lead to your defection from the ranks.”

Huffing in anger, Dean’s jaw flexed when his teeth clenched together. “Well, _sorry_ , then. Sammy would’ve been thrown to Timbuktu if I hadn’t—”

“I’m letting you off with a warning, Winchester. Promise me you won’t let it happen again.” The command was silent, but its purpose was served. John had put his Marshal mask back on, which only irritated Dean further. “There better be no ‘next time’; no if’s, and’s or but’s, cadet, for there will be grave consequences.”

“But I’m your son!” Dean had exclaimed in defense. “I was only protecting my brother. What more do you want from me, Dad—?”

Marshal Winchester threw his hand down onto his desk, eyes staring down his oldest. There was a challenge in the air that Dean would have been glad to take. “As long as you’re within the walls of this Academy, you will refer to me as ‘Sir’ or ‘Marshal’. Am I being _clear_ , cadet?”

Neither son nor father spoke for the duration of three whole heart beats. Brown bore into green as both Winchesters stared each other down. For not speaking for a few weeks, they were doing a fan-friggin’-tastic job at a reunion. On the upside, no punches had been thrown and everything was still intact.

Dean was the first to speak, if only to be able to leave the dreaded office sooner. “Crystal, _sir_ ,” he clearly huffed through gritted teeth. Squaring his shoulders back, Dean planted his feet firmly on the ground. Just to piss off his father, he plastered on a fake smile and asked, “Permission to be dismissed, sir?” That was a clear _fuck you_ as any.

With a reluctant sigh, the Marshal pinched the bridge of his nose. “Granted.”

He was more than happy to oblige, giving a half-assed salute. As Dean pivoted on his heels, he overheard his father speak to the stale air: “Mary, what am I gonna do with these kids?”


	2. Off to the Races

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The academy cadets train to be the next class of Jaeger pilots, and Dean has to go toe-to-toe with a beast of a man, Castiel Novak. In the end, they find out some things about each other that makes them wonder: Are they Drift Compatible?
> 
> John's A+ parenting does another cameo when he implies that his youngest son doesn't have what it takes to be a Ranger. Surprise, surprise, Sam drops out of the program to live with Bobby Singer in California.

Dean noticed how cadets were slowly being picked off one by one. Some dropped out, or even defected, but the others simply didn't have what it took to be pilots. Ranger hopefuls with the optimal skill set, fighting range, and physical prowess were difficult to come by; finding a second one that was their best friend was even harder. The Academy was created so that the PPDC could search for the perfect Jaeger pilots to help defend their world. The problem they soon had come to face, approaching the end of the first eight weeks of training, was that none of the cadets were truly compatible. Trainers, Fightmasters and officers reported many potential cadets to be brought up as probationary pilots, but not one produced the required Compatibility match with another. It was known that pairs of quick-witted soul mates with Olympic stamina didn't grow on trees; the Command and board were merely hoping to find even one crew before the end of the year.

It was one of their day-offs. Majority of the cadets and officers had slept in until noontime, whereas a handful of others went to the Proving Grounds, the place where a select few would eventually go to witness history being made – hopefully co-pilots would have been found by then. There they marveled at the sights of the hangar bays.

For the rest of the cadets that had stayed back, they had free reign to wander the grounds. The Winchester brothers and their group of friends decided to hit the gym. "This training is gonna be the death of me," Benny complained as they rode down the freight lift. He'd leaned against the side, crossing both arms and ankles. "And I thought the Navy's Hell Week was tough as shit."

"You were a Navy guy?" Kevin butted in. The Asian-American had joined their little circle of solidarity after much prodding by one Samuel Winchester. "Where were you stationed?" he asked quickly, attention honing into a focal point that was Laffitte. "Did you know Chris Kyle? Were you in Operation Desert Storm?"

Dean started to snicker, Sam face-palmed, and Charlie all but laughed her brains out. The look on Benny's face was beyond priceless; he was clearly offended, but quickly brushed it off. Looking at Kevin with heightened judgment, the southerner scoffed. "Boy, how _old_ d'you think I am?" he questioned accusingly.

The doors slid open. Charlie spoke up, laughing, "Why don't you tell us, then, _Grandpa_?"

As the group bounded down the corridor to the open gym, over their roaring laughter they heard the distinct squeaking of sneakers on waxed floors. Through the small viewing windows to the double-doors, everyone moved to see what all the hype was. Other cadets were inside playing basketball, but it was nothing like the sport Dean had ever seen. No one seemed to be trying to make baskets, but their tactics and moves were all fluid. All they did was dribble, pass, and dribble some more. Their movements were short, but not choppy; rather swift and calculated.

"What the hell kind of basketball is that?" Dean heard Sam mutter under his breath. "Is that even _considered_ basketball?" The younger Winchester pushed past his brother and peered through the window, following the advances of the other cadets. "It's like they're in sync, anticipating others' moves. That's… new."

Dean recognized a handful of the cadets from the Kwoon; others, not so much. He could name Nick and Michael Gage, Adam Milligan, Ezekiel Novak, and Meg Masters. There were a few more unfamiliar faces between them all. His eyes landed on one figure, and, subconsciously, Dean spoke to no one in particular. "Who's Short, Dark, and Blue-Eyes over there?"

Charlie leaned up onto the balls of her feet, trying to get a better look through the Winchester-blocked windows. "Oh, that's Castiel, one of Zeke's brothers."

"Hell. He looks..." Dean surveyed him: The guy moved quick on his feet, but he didn't look like he had any fight in his bones. He took a moment to find the right words. "Very _unlike_ pilot-material."

"He might not seem like much, but that guy's a beast," Sam informed them, expression a little wary. Dean remembered the small bout of fear he had a while ago after one of Sam's matches; he didn't calm down until he found his brother in the medical bay; bandages, stitches, and all. He'd have given anyone three guesses on who beat up his brother. "Maybe we should go somewhere else to hang out. I bet there are other places to—"

"Nonsense, Sammy! This gym's big enough for the lot of us." Dean clapped his brother on the back before he pushed the doors open, leading the others and causing all eyes to fall on them. When Michael registered Dean's presence, he moved to approach him; however, Nick held a hand up, stopping the advance.

The silence was nearly painful. Thankfully, one of the guys Dean hadn't yet been acquainted with – Cole Trenton, as he later came to know – broke it. "Can we help you gentlemen?" Upon laying eyes on Charlie, he added: "And lady."

"Just looking for some fun-spirited sport, you know," Dean answered, sporting a lopsided grin himself. "I'm Dean, Dean Winchester."

And that was how Dean was introduced to Cole, Jessica Moore, Sarah Blake, Cassie Robinson, Garth and Nancy Fitzgerald (of no relation), and Ezekiel's brothers Gabriel and Castiel. (Dean had to hold himself back from making a comment of the Novak siblings' names. What, were their parents high hippies or just highly religious?)

That was also how, during a full-on half-court game, Dean ended up on the ground, cursing in pain and glaring at the person who had put him there in the first place.

Castiel didn't even bat an eye when he intercepted the game ball and passed it to Michael, who in turn shot it through the hoop with an irritating _swoosh_.

Benny was at Dean's side within a moment's notice, reaching out a hand and pulling him to his feet. "You good, brother?"

Rolling his shoulder, Dean nodded. "Doesn't like people much, does he?" he cynically inquired, his green eyes trained on Castiel who was now guarding Kevin.

"It always takes two to tango." And Benny was off again, chasing Cole as he dribbled the basketball between his legs.

Dean's eyebrows furrowed together. "What the hell does that even _mean_?" His only response was a face full of Spalding leather, which bounced off his head and into the hands of the opposing team.

Sam mockingly patted him on the shoulder as he jogged past, smirking. "Nice move, using your head for once."

"Bitch."

"Jerk."

* * *

October. It was the first time that Marshal Winchester came into the dojo to assess the sparring between the cadets first-hand; it was also the first time every remaining cadet trained together. Dean figured John had had enough disappointment from reading reports. Of the hundreds of cadets that had enlisted into the Jaeger Program to be Rangers, a mere tenth had survived to the middle of first-term; by this time, hardly twenty had remained and there still were not enough viable co-pilot pairings. Dean knew very well how his dad reacted when it came to a lack of progression in things. John liked to be there and push you harder than a fully-loaded train moving uphill.

Like a fly to shit, Dean found his pearly ass back in the Kwoon. If he knew better, he would've supposed it was because of his perky nipples. Unfortunately, he did know better. Kwoon sparring fights were about not only strength, endurance, and stamina, but connections, control, foresight – meaning if he made it this far, he had some form of capability that the program sought after. Their Fightmaster, Victor Henriksen, had pulled out the weapons trunk and everyone seemed to groan into themselves.

"Sir, with all due respect," Benny began, "this ain't working all too good. The wash-outs had better chemistry than we do." The man's reflexes kicked in when Henriksen shifted, and his fingers wrapped around the middle of the long staff in mid-air. Hanbos again?

"What else could we do with these?" Zeke spoke up for the first time in a long time. He caught the hanbo thrown at him with ease. "Are we going to catch fish like in _Mulan_?"

There was a small "I love that movie!" from one of the cadets whose name was none other than Garth Fitzgerald.

The voice of John Winchester found its way into the air. "You will acquaint yourselves as true warriors have for centuries," he told them. He followed behind the Fightmaster as the man gave each cadet a staff. The Marshal gave long, hard looks to each person.

Eventually, Henriksen ordered, "Rapunzel, Prince Eric, to the mat." Everyone grew confused and looked around amongst themselves. To clarify, he shot out, "Dean, Castiel."

The rest of the cadets filed to the far wall and in front of the entrance as the owners of the names stood facing each other on the sparring mats. Castiel was just as he had remembered, closely resembling a blue-eyed puppy with chicken wings for arms; although, his rival could possibly be the toughest son of a bitch known to man. He'd be in hell and high water with more than just his father if he lost this fight.

Dean was positive some higher power was toying with him now. From what he could see, Castiel's skin revealed no physical evidence of any new or existing lacerations, which meant he was either a mastermind in disguise, or he never put up enough of a fight to be qualified for combat fighting.

Dean went with door number two as he twirled the staff in his hands. His father's words had been nagging him in the back of his mind: "It's a dialogue, not a fight." From the corner of his eyes, Dean stole a glance at John, whose arms were crossed. Tentatively, he turned to face his opponent. Castiel threw the first strike, a formal move. Dean blocked and followed through with a swing of his own, connecting with the other man's shoulder. He glared at him, seeming a little surprised. A grimace slowly formed on his face.

One person whispered, "Five bucks on Novak." It was soon widely known that he wasn't very skilled at whispering.

"Nah, Winchester's got this in the bag."

The firstborn son tried to ignore the comments from the other cadets as he circled Castiel.

"Watch each other," instructed the Marshal. "Get into each other's minds: What's the other person thinking?"

 _I'm thinking it's about time you shut up, old man_ , Dean thought inwardly as he lunged. The corners of Castiel's lips started to turn up as he parried. Was there something on Dean's face? No, he'd checked this morning. Could Novak have known his thoughts? Was his disdain _that_ obvious?

Castiel twirled the hanbo between his fingers. _Such a show-off_ , Dean thought inwardly, narrowly dodging a swing.

"Remark. Reply. Pay attention," the Marshal kept chanting.

Their hits came slow at first, cautious, learning – a strike there, a block; a strike, a dodge. Each movement and countermove was part of a defining, rolling conversation. Dean noticed quickly that Castiel would step before striking, and so he mirrored his movements in reverse.

"Learn each other's reflexes, their instincts."

_Just shut up already!_

Castiel swung at him, and even from there, Dean could tell it would be a fierce blow. He didn't react fast enough to jump before the wooden staff smacked him in the shin; he would've bet a nasty bruise in that spot tomorrow. The eldest looked at his father who simply smirked and shrugged. John remarked, "Even I saw that one coming," which earned him a few stifled chuckles masked in coughs.

Every blow following that seemed to escalate with Castiel's movements coming a little harder and faster than the one prior. Shoulder, ribs, knee, head – all attempts at a direct-contact hit was blocked by Dean. He may not have had enough muscle to be considered a bodybuilder, but Dean considered himself a fairly well-off guy. But even with that in mind, he was nearly unable to fend off the shorter man, feeling each hit reverberating from the staff and into his bones. There was a certain glint in Castiel's eyes that rivaled even the darkest of demons. Dean was forced to step forward, using that leverage to push his rival back using the hanbo.

"Novak, you're _fighting_ him," Marshal Winchester warned, hands clasped together behind his back. His once warm, brown eyes were scrutinizing, calculating, and over everything else, cold.

 _Yeah, Novak, you're fighting._ Dean taunted Castiel with a smirk. He ducked another swing, stepping under the other's arm. _Hit me with your best shot—_

Dean was a little too distracted by his own thoughts that he left his guard open long enough to let Castiel jab the hanbo into his stomach. With a heavy groan and the feeling of wind escaping his lungs, he doubled over in pain. The blue-eyed beast of a man shifted his arm once more, hitting the staff across Dean's face with a loud and heavy _crack!_ , forcing his once steady balance to wane.

The other cadets voiced their worries, calling for the match to end. It just so happened to be that Dean was never one to scare easily. Even when their house was broken into, or when he'd nearly skidded off the road in the winter or worse yet whenever his father would reprimand him, Dean would stare the fear straight-on. However, it was in the moment, when he realized that the scrawny guy was kicking his ass relentlessly at his own game that fear finally registered in his mind.

Henriksen spoke up for the first time since the match's start. "Cadet Novak, stand down!"

He didn't.

"Winchester's dead meat." It was the blond, Adam, who had accepted the bout and bets that realized he would soon be out five bucks.

Castiel gave a round-house kick, pushing his full weight into it, which knocked Dean's legs from under him. The Winchester took a moment to feel the cool surface of the mat, and stared with wide eyes as Castiel stood over him, ready to drive his staff through his skull—

"Cas!" Ezekiel and Gabriel's voices had fused together as one, bringing back the far-away look on their brother's face.

In the duration of the next intake of breath that passed Dean's lips, Castiel had dropped his hanbo and walked off; the former let out a heavy exhale, dropping his head back into the mat. His chest rose and fell rapidly, but it was nothing compared to the fluttering of his heartbeat.

"Someone take Winchester to the Medical Bay," the Marshal ordered. When no one moved, he said more forcefully, " _Today_ , cadets!"

Sam and Benny instantly fell from the line and went to help Dean to his feet. Each slung an arm over their shoulders and made sure Dean wouldn't run into any walls.

"That's one mean shiner, bro," a bemused Sam commented about his brother's swollen right eye.

"Shut up," was all Dean could manage.

From the corner of his good eye, Dean watched as Adam Milligan reluctantly slapped a fiver into the waiting palm of a smug Nick Gage.

* * *

"What the hell are _you_ doing here?" Those were the first words that came out of Dean Winchester's mouth when he saw Castiel Novak in the Marshal's quarters. It had been the first time they'd seen one another since the combat room a couple nights ago; some would have assumed both men were avoiding each other on purpose if they hadn't already been preoccupied with other duties.

Castiel threw a look in Dean's direction, one that the latter couldn't quite decipher. It was bored, cold, and full of disinterest. "I was paged here by the Marshal. Same as you, apparently," the dark-haired cadet answered, sighing. He slouched a bit in the seat, left leg propped up on his right knee. Additionally, he ignored Dean's quiet comment: "Who pages anyone anymore? Last I checked, this wasn't the '90s."

It took a good few seconds before Castiel said to Dean, "Sorry about before."

"Ah, so he _does_ have a conscience!" Dean exclaimed sarcastically.

"I said I was sorry," he spat back.

"For what? Fouling me at ball, or nearly plowing my head through with a fucking _stick_?" Dean didn't bother to mask the venom that cleanly dripping through his words. The frown was deeply set across his lips. When he stepped further into the stuffy office, Dean picked up the only chair beside Castiel and moved it away, plopping down unceremoniously. "Running with the eyes of the Devil lately? Or are you more of a beating-up-teenagers-in-my-free-time type? What's the word, _Cas_?"

"I do believe it's a shortened version of my name."

Dean, caught off guard by the other man's blunt reply, snorted out a laugh. "Well, no _shit_ , Sherlock..."

They sat in a very tense, very dead silence until nearly five minutes had passed. "Why the hell did my old man call us here if he wasn't even gonna show up?" Dean uttered haughtily, making a decision to leave. "Not like I should be surprised; he's always gone anyway."

Before he even got up from his chair, Castiel had stopped him. "You don't like the Marshal."

Dean had to bite back another smart remark, instead going with: "What could have given you _that_ idea?" He refrained from rubbing at his still-healing eye.

Castiel's brows furrowed at his sarcasm, but didn't respond rudely. "During the match, it was obvious. Whenever he would comment, your brow arched and you got this mean look on your face."

"You got that I had daddy-issues because of a face I pulled?" Dean questioned condescendingly. "I could've just grown tired of your ugly mug, for all you know." But his mug wasn't ugly, and Dean hated to admit it. Castiel Novak was significantly better looking than some people, and he sure as hell knew his way around a fight. The guy was quiet, mostly kept to himself, cryptic; Dean, on the other hand, was loud-mouthed, something less of a social butterfly, and many thought him to be an opened book.

Winchester and Novak couldn't be any more different, but that was why they worked. They balanced the other out.

"I know the look." Castiel was looking away from him as he said this, staring at the barren walls. "It's the same one I see every morning in the stupid mirror."

"Welcome to the club," Dean replied humorlessly. "Cas."

Once it was in the air, he couldn't take it back. From then on, he was just "Cas" to Dean.

From then on, Dean always saw what his bastard of a father did: He and Cas had a connection, knew common ground. In some form, they were Drift Compatible.

* * *

Apart from their dorm units, the mess hall, and the combat room, Sam still needed to be escorted around the Jaeger Academy. As smart a kid as he was, Sam didn't have a photographic layout of every hall and corridor that had eerily similar floor plans. But the Marshal's office was something he remembered quite well; Sam's goal was to avoid that place like the plague, and only when he absolutely had to, he taught himself how to navigate around the stench of disappointment and long overdue apologies that's been prickling his nose for years.

Sam was in the mess hall with the others when he was called through the PA system; everyone at the table gave him beef about being called to the Marshal's office ("What'd you do, Sam? Forget to kiss your daddy good-night?" "I miss you already, kiddo!" "Are you gonna finish your pie?"). If only they knew then what everyone feared, the news was less than pleasant.

The walk to his father's unit seemed to take less time than usual. Upon arrival, the second-born lifted his hand and knocked. His action was followed by a muffled: "Come in."

"Take a seat, cadet," came the gravelly voice of the Marshal. He was stood before the window of the office quarters, which overlooked the tarmac outside and further out to the icy waters.

Sam cleared his throat, following his father's order. He shifted his hazel eyes to the floor, biting his cheek for insurance. "You requested for me, Sir?"

The Marshal turned on his heel, taking the few steps back to the desk, prompting questionable doubt as to what was going to come out of his mouth next. The Marshal undid a button on his blazer before pulling in his chair. Sam's seen that rigid posture one too many times; it only meant bad news. "It's come to my attention that you've got some kind of skill, son." There wasn't admiration in his tone, just fact. However, the way he had voiced that statement made Sam all the more curious.

"With all due respect, Marshal, 3 - 0's in the Kwoon against Cadet Tran isn't really—"

"I wasn't referring to your combat skills, Sam," his father interjected, effectively cutting him off. John linked his fingers together, placing them calmly on the surface of his desk. "J-Tech has brought to my attention your exemplary aptitude for their field."

Sheepishly, the son revealed, "I was only a tech kid during theatre; I'm no genius at the stuff…" However, it was when Sam fully looked his father in the face did he see something: It was an expectant look, arguably amused. Silently, he realized, his father was urging him on. "I mean, yeah, the mechas are really cool. I'd love to drive 'em almost as much as I want to see how they work."

"How would you like to transfer into Jaeger Tech?"

Sam turned, gaping straight at him. The Marshal's question had caught him off guard, even though he knew something was wrong from the beginning. "Excuse me?"

"Your talents are relied elsewhere," he clarified, shuffling files and papers on his desk. "Sadly, Sam, of the dozen or so cadets left, none has the Drift Compatibility required in being your co-pilot. At least with J-Tech, you'll get to work behind the scenes; more chances, less physical confrontation—"

"I know what the job is," Sam spat, white-knuckling the arms of his chair. "Did it really take this long to figure out I _wasn't_ fit to be a Ranger?" the seventeen-year-old spat, trying to keep his voice leveled.

The Marshal raised a brow. "Are you angry with me, cadet?"

"Angry? I'm way past angry!" He pushed the tacky, metal chair back, getting to his feet.

Marshal Winchester said almost half-heartedly, "Sam, we don't have time for this."

"You _never_ have the time, but that's not the point here!" Sam turned on his father with a fire that had burned for far too long. "I have put my blood, sweat, and tears into training with the rest of them! I've made it this far – so close to sim runs – and then I get _pulled_?"

A brief silence that can only be described as painful lingered between the two. When Sam didn't continue on with his rant and spitting of fire, John told his son forcefully, "Sit back down, and let's talk about this!"

"No," Sam scoffed, as if insulted that his father would ever offer to 'talk' things through. To be fair, it was an insult, only it wasn't one on his behalf.

"I said, sit in the damn chair!"

"Yeah. And I said 'no'."

John's nostrils flared and for once, through the pent-up rage and disapproving glare, he actually resembled a father. "You're acting like a child, Samuel."

"Yeah? Well, maybe because I technically still am one."

"Listen to me—"

"No! I'm _done_ listening!" Sam threw his hand out; making sure his father had gotten the point. Enraged, the son huffed, forcing his feet to move towards the door. It wasn't until he reached for the knob that Sam realized hot tears were threatening to cascade down his cheeks.

Marshal Winchester exhaled deeply, shaking his head. "What more could you want?! I'm treating you just as equally as I do everyone else." Irritably, he said, "Something tells me this isn't about the Program anymore."

Sam held back the urge to roll his eyes, and instead let the wetness roll down his face and off his chin. He always was an angry crier. Sam didn't turn to look at his father as he uttered, "You're right, this isn't about being transferred. But there was always something I wanted you to do: _Be a better father_."

"Sam, where do you think you're going?" He was already halfway out of the door when John called after him. "I am not done discussing this!"

"But I am." After abruptly turning, Sam's shoulders shrugging in mock-apology. The small curl of his lips was hard to keep as he broke inside, his eyes being the only distinction of his tears. "I quit. I'll go to university like I was supposed to. I'm _done_."

"If you walk out that door, Sam, don't expect me to take you back," the Marshal warned. "No son of mine turns his back on me. Don't even think about coming back here!"

That was the last anyone had seen of Sam Winchester at the Jaeger Academy. No one apart from their family knew exactly what had transpired after the argument between father and son. The question was: Did he voluntarily defect, or was he kicked out? Neither the Marshal nor Dean Winchester wanted to talk about it.


	3. 'Til I Collapse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The probationary co-pilots are putting their blood, sweat, and tears into their training. John finds promise in Castiel and Dean, so he personally trains them in compatibility exercises. 
> 
> On their day-off, they end up at a local bar and exchange war stories, finally seeing their Drift Compatibility. Dean steals a kiss when they try to hide from Michael and Nick "Lucifer" Gage.
> 
> Cas and Dean finally try out the Battle Simulators and succeed with their first Neural Handshake, but things don't turn out as first planned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This will continue to be regularly updated now. Most of the fic has been written, and just needs to be beta'd. :D Please feel free to leave reviews or comments!

Slowly, but surely, the remaining Ranger hopefuls were finding their Drift Compatible partners. The others were transferred out to other sanctions and were started up on different curriculum based on their aptitude for the jobs.

Of the nearly two dozen cadets that had been training (before Sam’s departure, anyway), a mere half had been cast as probationary pilots. Those six approximate pairs were in the final line-up to be fully fledged Jaeger Rangers, a title everyone who was anyone had dreamed of achieving.

The exercises and conditioning were even more vigorous than before. It was proved that piloting a multiple-story Jaeger was no absolute walk in the park. All of the pilot hopefuls had to get used to drills and those tacky, uniform track suits. For those who had done their homework on the past Rangers and the two years the Defense Corps was up and running, they were aware that they had been cheated out of an easy pass: In the very beginning, recruiters used to bring out Xboxes for the cadets to mess around with to gauge compatibility, and they had also utilized uber basic questionnaires to finish and polish off the rest.

In the early months with the newest recruits, PPDC Command had obviously been a little worried of not finding an ample amount of co-pilots to be the next generation of battle-ready Rangers, especially with Marshal Winchester’s new methods of finding partners. Before their second trimester had finished, there were a total of six partner groups that had been found: Dean Winchester and Castiel Novak; Adam Milligan and Nick Gage; Benny Lafitte and Cole Trenton; Gabriel and Zeke Novak; Charlie Bradbury and Jessica Moore; Meg Masters and Ruby Kristie. Their previous comrades had been transferred out to different divisions: Garth Fitzgerald became a Jumphawk pilot; Cassie Robinson was the new Conn-Pod Control Instructor; Kevin Tran had been keen on becoming the K-Tech Simulator Battle Programmer; Michael Gage was, surprisingly, put out to be a Strike Trooper.

Everyone had their own separate things to learn. Not surprisingly, learning came sooner than later.

“Again.”

Three thick _thud_ s came from the impact of multiple hanbos before a chorus of cries echoed in the space. Marshal John Winchester had his hands clasped behind him. His eyes were narrowed as he watched the prospective co-pilots train in the Kwoon Combat Room. “Again,” he called, circling the handful of pairs in the dojo.

Castiel Novak and Dean Winchester huffed in synchronicity with their simultaneous hits, blocking the other’s attempt to make a full-contact. The other pairs mirrored their movements to the dot.

Another round of shouting.

“ _Again!_ ”

One, two, three -- _thud, thud, thud_.

Dean’s body was on fire. Every muscle, every fiber, was screaming in pain. His limbs had turned to lead over two hours prior; the nerve endings felt like pin-pricks all throughout him; the blood pumping through his circulatory system was loud in his ears, irritating, chronic. Pilot training was the worst bout of physical exertion he had yet to face in his short life; wrestling and cheer now seemed so much more preferable.

The Marshal was on the other side of the combat room, closer to the area where Nick Gage and Adam Milligan were sparring. From the corner of his eye, Dean noticed Adam’s stance wane, and he took a second to regain his balance. The kid was obviously spent; his skin glistened with layers of sweat, significantly more so than his partner. Marshal Winchester, too, appeared to notice the action, and angled his head high, almost scrutinizing the cadet.

"Again."

He looked off to the side as their drill continued, taking a glance to the miniature war clock. It read _October 16 -_ _18:43_ ; more than half of the day was already gone. “Cadets, fall in.” The recruits all hustled into a line, standing taut with the hanbos straight against their sides. In the quiet, it wasn’t all too difficult to distinguish their breaths in comparison to the movement of their shoulders.

The Marshal walked up the line, licking his lips and staring down at the floor. “Might I remind you all that your training regimen will be clearly identical to this past day from now on,” Winchester explained over the harsh breaths from the probationary pilots. “Day in and day out, from the ass-crack of dawn until the sun goes down, you will be physically and mentally acclimated to the lifestyle of Rangers. You will not rest until you have learned every maneuver, strategy, and fighting style that we will drill into muscle memory.”

“Sir!” Kevin Tran called, face forward. “When will we begin logging Pons time, sir?”

“Walk before you run, cadet.” With one final look over the trainees, the Marshal called out, “Dismissed!”

Upon hearing that lone word, every trainee collapsed onto the mats, exhausted beyond what they previously thought was physically possible. Dean could only speak for himself as he felt that he had been surviving on fumes for the past few hours, but with how many of the others were breathing so heavily and complaining and sprawled out against the cool mats, he realized that he wasn’t the only one.

“Why couldn’t… we just… play the fucking Xbox?” Ruby complained in between large huffs.

"I need a drink," Benny Laffitte sighed, throwing an arm over his face to cover his eyes.

Charlie offered, "Shots?"

Dean, Meg, and Gabriel were the loudest voices in the group that chorused, "Shots."

* * *

 

Castiel and Dean were sat in front of each other at a small table; a semi-large scale was placed on it with neatly stacked, various-sized weights. “Is this really necessary?” Dean questioned his father. Reaching back, he tied the black blindfold he was handed around his eyes. Before not seeing at all, he watched Castiel doing the same thing.

The voice he heard next was not the Marshal’s, but rather Castiel’s. "It obviously is," he retorted; "unless, of course, the Marshal wants us to look like idiots."

"That's correct," John piped up, his shoes making noise as he walked.

Dean angled his head in the direction where he thought his dad was. He asked, "Which part?"

"Little of both." Apparently walking to the other side of the table, John started his sermon. “The Jaeger is a huge machine, but you both know that. I assume you’ve heard of the story about William and Ellen Harvelle discovering the ideal use of the Pons system; from them, we know it takes two brains to move her, not unlike a dinosaur with those nerve bundles. Every step, every gesture is a concert of two minds.”

After explaining to the two men how the particular Drift exercise worked, both probies used their left hands and held onto the other’s right wrist in order to track their progress with switching weights. They both raised their right hands, then, to move the first weight to their respective trays. Cas and Dean let down the weights in unison; the balance scale shifted slightly, but didn’t tip.

A soft exhale came from the direction where Castiel was sat. However, in the pin-drop quiet of the room and with the lack of sight, Dean caught it.

The two of them lifted the next weight, and the same cautious movements happened again. Dean, however, placed his weight down too early and the balance shifted unevenly and all of the weights toppled. Irritably, Castiel yanked off his blindfold and sighed in frustration. “This is hopeless.”

“That’s something we both can agree on,” Dean concurred, pushing back his chair and making a beeline for the exit. Unlike his partner, he hadn’t pulled off his blindfold; he’d only made it a few steps before tripping over the dip in the middle of the room and landing square on his face.

For the first time since the two had met, Castiel laughed. 

* * *

 

Staff members in the Jaeger Academy continued on. Pilots practiced with flight sims, and troopers practiced their maneuvers. Techies made sure everything ran smoothly and without fault, and the prospective Rangers began their simulator training. The sun would still rise and fall. The moon would still shine a light in the vast darkness. Alaska would still be unimaginably cold and grew colder still. To the outside eye, it appeared as if nothing had changed on Kodiak Island.

To the outside eye, Marshal Winchester was as sound as ever; suit and tie, smile and all. There was no trace of stress, or anger, or even the smallest difference in his wake. It was like disowning his youngest son had no affect on him, unlike his first-born. Dean was furious when he realized that his little brother had been kicked out of the program by their own father. If anything, the very negative feelings that he held for his father only intensified when Sam left. With that being said, there was no one aside from Dean for the Marshal to yell at now. That did, in fact, leave him a bit bitter.

His birthday had come along with a few of the other cadets singing Taylor Swift’s “22” alarmingly off-key, but it was the thought that counted. It was also the first time that Sam didn’t greet him, and Dean realized that nothing much was going to change from then on; that things were as they were. His brother was still gone, and his father was still acting as the Marshal, and he was still angry at the world. The one difference is that now he had someone else to share that anger with, someone who understood what that feeling was.

“Someone’s glaring at that bottle a little too harshly. What'd he do? Try to choke you out?”

Castiel’s presence pulled at him. Castiel was dressed in an old Daredevil shirt under a red hoodie and black-dyed denim jacket. He wore loose cargos and red, soft leather Sketchers. Color him old-fashioned, but Dean was amused by his footwear.

The feeling of his palm clapping his left shoulder in greet brought Dean from his internal thoughts, and he came back to the present. He took a swig from his beer quickly, hoping that his co-pilot hadn’t noticed him staring off into space.

After asking the bartender for a drink (“Scotch on the rocks -- and two waters, thanks.”), Castiel leaned forward onto his forearms, sitting at the edge of his bar stool. He didn’t even need to look directly at his partner to see something had been bothering him; it was evident when he spoke. “Is it Sam again?”

Dean wanted to say _Who else would it be?_ , but he just didn’t have it in him. He settled for a long pull from his bottle of Jack Daniels. After letting its bottom hit the counter, the Winchester realized that he didn’t want to speak just yet.

Another drink.

Looking at his surroundings, Dean saw that there were a few people milling around inside the quaint little B&B Bar, but it was a relatively quiet day. Considering it was the start of the weekend and majority of the Academy cadets had gone out for a break from training, it was an oddity. Most cadets usually went around the town of Kodiak and drank away their stress, but Dean remembered there was a sort of workshop over at the Kodiak Harbor Convention Center for those in the PPDC.

“I didn’t expect any of this.”

Castiel was visibly confused, which was ironic because he was the only other person that would ever be inside of Dean’s mind-space. “You care to elaborate on that?”

“Not really,” Dean replied, straight up as the beer he downed. “Unless you’re buying another round.” Castiel’s ever-blue, liquefied gaze pierced through him like the switchblade he stowed in his back pocket, wriggling around until it eventually put holes in his jeans. He shifted slightly, hoping to get some release from the bricks weighing heavy on his legs. “You’re gonna do it, aren’t you?” There was a hint of amusement behind his pressing and impressed tone.

“You know you can talk to me, Dean,” the dark-haired man had offered, signaling to the bartender. “After all, we _are_ co-pilots. If I can’t hear you talk about your past, I’ll still see it, sooner or later--”

“Hey, just because you and I are _connected_ or something doesn’t give you the right to poke around in my brain,” he warned half-heartedly.

“It’s not like I have much of a choice in the situation, man.” Castiel pressed his lips to the cool glass wherein his scotch was held. He tipped his head back and let the liquid move past his teeth; the ice clinked almost silently as they shifted. Exhaling, Dean’s co-pilot took a moment before bringing them back on topic. “Look, I just want you to have the chance to let everything out that needs to be. At least before we’re subject to the lack of privacy, and all.”

“What’s dead should stay dead,” was Dean’s answer, and Castiel gave him a hard look. Due to spending so much time with the guy and being paired to be co-pilots, Winchester was able to decipher Novak’s glance, unlike the first time. His eyes were so blue -- striking, but also inviting. They were the kind of eyes that belonged to someone who’d seen the worst in humanity and accepted the fact that it even existed. Scoffing slightly, he rolled his eyes. He responded, “That may be true, but I’m your friend first, partner second. You can trust me, Dean.”

Dean breathed a sigh through his nose as he set down the bottle with a soft _clunk._ He took a minute before gathering the courage -- which was more or less comprised of liquid, at this point -- to speak again: “So, who died in your life to make your sorry ass a pilot?”

Cas chuckled humorlessly, shifting his unnerving focus to the wall of booze opposite them. “My dad, he, uh, he was straight Ranger-material before anyone even knew what to call them, sorta like yours. Except he didn’t live long enough to be a part of these heroes.”

For a moment, Dean thought to himself, _At least he didn’t live long enough to turn into the villain like mine._ The thought flitted past like it was nothing.

“He sure was something, you know,” Castiel continued. “Dad was never around when I was young -- we’d lost him, too, when I was, like, eight.”

“What happen to him?” Dean questioned, genuinely curious.

Castiel took a breath. "See, my parents never married, so my dad was... a free spirit, they say. Being a free spirit got him killed; my mom was a single mother of five, that's the end of that.

"But we always knew he was watching over us. My brothers and sisters, we’d look up at the sky, thinking that he’d be watching his little ant children from the stars. And you know, life pushes forward. Can’t exactly dwell on the past. All you can do is pray that you make your parents proud--or die trying to.” He tapered off with the curt nod of his head as he bore holes into the splintered counter top.

Dean swallowed his pride in saying, “Well, he’d be proud." He took a moment to clear his throat. "Your father, I mean.”

A nervous laugh escaped Cas’s mouth, “I think we’ve both had too much to drink.”

“Or not enough,” Dean said, sliding him the bottle. “This has been depressing. Drink up, probie.”

The two of them spent another hour or so sharing "war stories". The bartender seemed glad they drank throughout that time, lest he have to kick them out for loitering. A few people were giving them looks -- weird ones, awed ones, starry-eyed ones. Two teenaged girls had come up to Dean for pictures and autographs, stayed and talked with him for a while before the bartender told them to scoot their boot because they were underage.

When they were alone again, Castiel was trying to hold back laughter. He settled with shouldering the impulse and huffing the laugh. Dean gave him an incredulous gesture, raising a brow. "What's wrong with you?"

"Nothing, nothing," Cas replied with a breath, a sing-song tone making it evident that it definitely was not 'nothing'. "Those girls seemed awfully excited to meet you, Mr. Winchester. Didn't know you were such a hit with the locals."

"Oh, shut your cake hole. You're just jealous they didn't wanna give you the time of day."

"Hey, I've _got_ time. And a lot of it."

At around seven, Castiel received a call from one of his brothers to head back to base. Having paid the man, both probationary Rangers headed out to the chilled, crisp air. Dean was wearing a thick, blue snow vest over a black hoodie and a grey tee tucked into worn Levi's. He stared at his bright green Converse as they crunched with the newly fallen snow on the sidewalk.

An arm plopped around Dean’s shoulders almost lazily. "Do you think we'd ever end up like your old man?" Cas asked, throwing the other off-guard for a second.

He visibly stiffened as he walked, but merely shrugged his answer. Dean watched his breath condense in the air before him, alternating breathing from his nose to his mouth. "As deadbeat fathers or great Rangers?" He shoved his hands in his pockets, noting just how close his partner was to him. Castiel was radiating heat, and it was more than welcome in the cold night.

"Not the deadbeat-father part," he answered, yawning loudly. "I don't want my kids to grow up like I did. I want them to know who their father is. Well, if I don't get killed in action before all that happens, know what I mean?" He shook Dean’s arm before pulling his arm back.

They walked in silence for a few heartbeats. Their PPDC van was a couple blocks up the road, and it wasn't snowing as hard, so the two partners didn't find a reason to hasten their gait. When they were about halfway to the Best Western up a few blocks, Dean spoke up suddenly: "But, yes, I do think we've got what it takes to be good Rangers as well as my dad -- _better_ , even."

"Do you think we'll change?"

"Hell yeah, definitely. But it's up to us if we end up assholes or stay grounded. What, are you afraid of not making your folks proud?"

"Are _you_?" Castiel countered.

Dean snorted out a laugh, shaking his head. "Mom's gone, and I don't think Dad's been particularly proud of anything for a while. Especially not of me and Sam." He sobered up at the mention of his sibling. "But I'm doing this for Sam. This training, fighting kaiju, it's for him. Want him to look up to me and tell his friends, 'That's _my_ big brother.'"

Castiel nodded solemnly, agreeing. "That's how Gabe and Zeke and I felt when we first enlisted. Didn't expect to get this far. _At all_." The dark-haired brunet turned his head to look at the dirty-brown-haired man beside him. “The three of us want to make Anna and Tessa proud, for sure.”

Dean had asked a follow-up question, something along the lines of _What the hell is it like living with five kids?_ , and was about to get a response from Cas before the former stopped him.

The Winchester had spotted a pair of familiar faces walk out from the hotel, and his stomach twisted into knots upon seeing them. Apparently, it hadn’t gone unnoticed. Castiel followed his gaze and squinted when he saw Michael and Nick Gage, as seriously serious as ever.

There had been no bad blood remaining between the brothers and everyone else that had been in the same cadet class; Dean Winchester, of course, was the lone exception. Michael still hated his guts, and after what Sam did to Nick’s, the latter had no one else to glare at but Dean since the little one was gone.

“Oh, shit,” Dean hissed, pivoting around to stand in front of Cas. He pulled his hood over his head, hoping to provide some kind of cover. “They’re heading this way.”

“What do we do?” the latter asked in a voice a little over a whisper. His blue eyes looked into Dean’s evergreens and waited for an answer.

“Don’t punch me.”

“Wha--?”

Castiel didn’t have the time to finish; Dean didn’t give him the chance to. The latter boy grabbed the other’s front, balling the fabric of his jacket into his fists. Dean slammed his eyes shut as his lips pressed into Cas’s, though dry and chapped, packed with a cereal-box promise and--

Cas reciprocated instinctively, but tentatively, lips wrapping around Dean’s like an anaconda snatching its weekly kill. Before he could properly give name to Castiel’s tongue and the crevice that was his mouth-- whiskey-laden, but bursting with _heat_ and minty passion--his hands were underneath his shirt, sliding down each pore, sending shivers skating across his spine. Dean’s hand came up to cradle Cas’s chin, holding him in place.

Pulling apart to finally catch a much needed breath, Dean opened his eyes to see Castiel’s own closed, chasing his lips. He hadn’t punched him, which was a good sign, right?

He would’ve shattered if Castiel had pushed him away. When he was younger, Dean figured out that he was the kind of person who didn’t care about what he found in someone’s pants. Contrary to popular belief, he wasn’t the “wham, bam, thank you, ma’am” type.

It hadn’t dawned on him that Michael and Nick were already a long ways down the street until he scanned Castiel’s face. “Bad?”

After a moment, he got a reply; however, it wasn’t exactly the one he was expecting. With pursed lips, Castiel muttered, “Not the word I’d use.” Their eyes locked and formed a language of their own. His cheeks flushed bright red, and Dean wasn’t sure if it was entirely from the cold. “We should go jonesing for a good burger. Are you up for a good burger? The stuff they serve in the mess hall just doesn’t cut it for me, y’know. There’s this--"

Dean cut him off with another kiss in one fluid motion. “You talk too much.”

* * *

 

Hardly any of the chosen pilots had ever seen a DriveSuit up-close and personal, let alone _worn_ one. Though there was an initial fear of being burned or fried by the circuitry, there was no harm in looking like total badasses. Their day had started with being so very rudely awakened by their TCO via video chat, and now they were in the DriveSuit Room being fitted for their first Simulation trial run.

“I can’t believe we’re actually doing this.”

“Well, start believin’, asshat. That battle sim is just _waiting_ for us.”

Putting on the Circuitry and DriveSuits was admittedly a first for all, but to Dean, it was like familiarizing oneself with a bicycle again after a good decade. However, it did take a while for the techs to get the first-born Winchester set-up and fully suited -- he was a fussy one.

The bolts and pieces and clampy parts had Dean thinking all kinds of crazy stuff; he had to stop watching _Casa Erotica_ and _Dr. Sexy, M.D._ thinking about it because -- _Jeez, Cas is gonna be in my head._

Both Ranger trainees were handed their pre-sized helmets to their suits. They were the new updates with liquid circuitry neural pathways, specially made for the new Mark IIIs that were soon to launch. With minimal assistance, Cas and Dean managed to get them on, diving into sensory overload as the darkness engulfed them, leaving them blind for a few seconds before the Relay Gels dispersed within their first suit layer. Dean felt the brush of pressure against his right forearm; it was Cas, who’d grazed a hand to his. The act was over within the next second; it was quick, almost a phantom feeling. Reassurance.

They blinked away the brightness.

Walking into the replica Conn-Pod in the Simulator Room was like entering a spaceship with surrounding IMAX-level screens; it was like a 30th century model of what in-home gyms would eventually look like. Cozy.

The Jaeger Technicians assisted Cas and Dean into the Motion Rigs, making sure that they were connected and had no chance of falling out. Castiel had taken the right hemisphere rig, the more dominant side, whereas Dean took to the left. Winchester was in a glass box of emotion -- in this case, the box was the DriveSuit and his emotions were scaling all up and down on the spectrum. He was scared, excited, nervous, and calm, all at once.

His stomach dropped when their Conn-Pod coordinator turned on the communicator link and asked if they were set to go. After making sure their panels and controls were correctly set-up, they were.

Dean’s slight advantage to the situation was that he had been trained thoroughly; he was aware of the Drift, and knew his Compatibility. Dean felt its reflex, its silence. But neither he nor Cas have actually ever gone through it, and he also heard about R.A.B.I.T.s, or Random Access Brain Impulse Triggers, when one or both pilots latch onto memories during the Neural Handshake. If his and Cas’s pasts are anything of an indication, not chasing the R.A.B.I.T. might be a problem.

A new voice came from the comms. “ _Prepare for neural handshake._ ” The Marshal. Their Tech Chief Officer began a countdown. With every number, Dean felt his heart rate pick up.

The Drift Space wasn’t anything like he had expected. The feeling of the start wasn’t unlike being sucked through a black hole and pulled through a ringer. Each memory came forward and away in milliseconds, warping into one another like they were being weaved; it was difficult to figure out whose memories and thoughts were whose before--

_Gabe, Zeke, Cas, Anna, and Tessa chasing each other through abandoned buildings in Russia_

_That’s a big fire_

_Don't worry the firefighters got it, right Dad_

_Mary Winchester looked angry as she scolded Dean, hospitalized battered and bruised and crashed their father’s car -- What the hell were you doing, young man_

_Mama will Papa ever come home?_

_Gabriel and Ezekiel got into a fight at school with that kid Raphael_

_Anna breaking her arm when she fell from a tree, what a klutz Mama the car won’t turn on_

_Dad still loves you Mom, he didn’t mean it_

_Tire screeches fading as John drives away. Tears blurring vision, Sam’s crying_

_I’m sorry_

_Gabe bringing home a new girl, Tessa doesn’t like this one either_

_Dark snowing winding roads semi-truck is honking bright headlights I can’t stop -- waking up in the hospital_

_Balthazar tutoring Cas in AP Chem, his parents were out the rug slipped he fell, he kissed him and he didn’t pull back until_

_Dad she’s gone. She’s gone, what do I do, I’m sorry I’m sorry_

_Dammit Cas your father’s dead_

_Rhonda Hurley and alcohol, pink lace panties -- holy shit_

_They had every class together. Her family had just moved in beside them her room was still empty; it was how Cas met Hannah and her sister Hael. A wave from her sent him smiling_

_They had to get back to Jaeger training_

Memories overlapped and sounds were too loud and just too quiet, and it was a push-and-pull, a give-and-take: _Moscow, and New York, fifteen felt just like yesterday she kissed him_

_Don’t make promises you can’t keep, Dad_

_You and Lisa! Stay away from me Dean, don’t even wanna see your face around here_

_It was sloppy and hasty but his lips were soft arms snaked around and -- Balthazar, you’re eighteen -- clothes littered the floor_

_School yard fights, Cas and Dean and scraps. Dean always punched with his right, Cas’s second black eye_

_Blood_

_Dad made the arm move, Sammy. More money rolling in to fund the Jaeger Program, dropping out of college for Sam_

_Passing notes during middle school when the teachers aren’t looking_

_Cas, you kids have a letter from your dad_

_Ducking into the janitor’s closet and kissing her tripping over the mop bucket Hey Sammy_

_Mom Dad I want to join the National Guard, she looked disappointed but he was proud_

_Fire_

_Tessa’s heart broke at sixteen, three brothers beating up that pathetic son of a bitch_

_Promise we’ll always stick together, forever a Novak_

_Bobby telling him that family don’t end with blood trickling from his nose but the guy deserved it, you can’t just pick on people_

_Can’t pick every fight either_

_Dean being sent to a boy's home for a while, hi I'm Sonny_

_Cas was gonna kill him, oh my god his blue eyes were cold, Dean froze_

_Don’t punch me, his lips felt just right against him in the cold you talk too much_

_Don’t bother with college, you ain’t missing much kid we’re joining the Rangers_

Then followed the last rush of the Drift and the room seemed to groan, no one chased R.A.B.I.T.s, and the stray thoughts came to and the fringes caught up with the two of them: _Strike three you’re out! I told you I hate baseball Ice cream hockey the sunrise behind the clouds from the airplane window the last time their mom said she loved them and not being able to cry I don’t like spiders_

_Why are you and Tessa the only ones that look alike_

_Mama will Papa ever come home?_

_Don’t make promises you can’t keep, Dad_

_His hand wrapped around his wrist and he felt chills up his spine. Behind the blindfold, he could imagine_

_Blood_

_What the hell do you mean Sam just left_

_Fire_

_Very unlike pilot-material_

_You can trust me, Dean_

Kodiak Island. 2016. _It’s Thursday, right?_ Castiel and Dean were back in the present, and his heart was beating fast, and they both could feel what the other did. It took a long time to get his breath back. _We did it_

It was like a year has passed before they felt less like celestials and more like humans. Their TCO came through the comms, announcing proudly, “ _Neural handshake strong and holding."_  

Embarrassment wasn’t a thing between the two of them. They’d just seen the deepest recesses of the other’s minds, their darkest secrets, all of it was just out in the open and they were both fine with it. If anything, Castiel Novak and Dean Winchester were both messed up as it is; what’s the problem of sharing it with someone else?

The two of them continued with designated protocol, but Dean had to pull himself back from looking through Castiel’s head space, filled with answers to the mysterious life that Dean had finally been able to unlock. He couldn’t help but to have his eyes flicker up to Castiel’s face every few seconds.

Thoughts passed between their minds rapidly; lengthy conversations and inquiries and replies came within seconds. Feelings were universal; emotions increased four-fold. Distantly, they heard the tech chief’s voice from the comm speakers. “ _Cas, you’re waving. Focus. Neural connection is strong, but you guys could still fall out of alignment…_ ”

“ _Cadet, steady_.” It was Marshal Winchester. He sounded so far away. “ _Let it go, Novak. Don’t chase the R.A.B.I.T_.”

A steady stream of images bombarded his mind, of multiple people, all of them smiling and crying and laughing and dying -- he wasn’t sure if they were his memories or not, but Dean could see them too. _Mary and John and Sam and Lisa and Gabe and Tessa and Balthazar. It was snowing in Moscow. San Francisco was foggy. The Novaks played super heroes with their mom’s lighter. The ferry was packed with people heading to Alcatraz and then the roar could be heard from miles and miles away_ \-- panic.

Both pilots broke their focus and became unhinged; the Motion Rigs jerked alarmingly fast, which sent the beating pulses in their heads to scream louder.

“ _Sir, they’re both out of alignment._ ”

“ _Both of them?_ ”

Castiel took a few deep breaths to steady himself, reeling himself in. “I’ve got it. Give me a second,” he called, brushing off the quick moment of a blip.

Dean felt a cold chill roll up his spine, and his head hurt, and why couldn’t he move?

The tech chief, once again, comm’d in. “ _Dean is way out there, Castiel_.”

His partner’s calls were loud and quiet at the same time. But he wasn’t paying attention. _Dean remembered running and then Trespasser; John was broken and they fought and then his hand made contact with his face--_

“ _Simulation offline. Left hemisphere unavailable. Neural Handshake failed_ ,” the Jaeger AI slowly recited in monotone, saying what everyone was afraid to hear.

The sim room powered down. Dean, having finally shaken off the unexpected turn of events, took his helmet off and took a breather. He released himself from the rigging and ran a gloved hand through his short-cropped hair. Castiel followed his action, stepping off the rigs as well. He detached his helmet and tucked it into his side, turning to Dean with a look of worry and sympathy. “Hey, are you alright?”

“I’m sorry,” Dean muttered, fiddling with the front of his DriveSuit, doing everything to avoid Cas’s gaze. “You weren’t supposed to see that.”

There was a moment of pure silence between them. No one spoke.

From the corner of his eyes, Dean saw Castiel silently nodding to himself. “I didn’t realize you were there that day. I’m sorry.”

“Me too.”

The door to the Simulation Room let in a bright flow of light from the hall.


	4. Ungodly Hour

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Jaeger Academy Class of 2016 were beginning to be assigned to their Jaegers and corresponding Shatterdomes along the Pacific Rim coastlines.
> 
> Meanwhile, Sam Winchester finds himself in the middle of a second kaiju landing. How unlucky can one person be?

Dean Winchester braved the freezing cold temperatures just to watch the sunset. He had taken an early dinner just so that he could avoid most of the people inside the Jaeger Academy; it was one of those days where nothing was too terrible to handle, but he felt he needed to be alone.

He hadn’t been able to watch the sunset since his mother had died. Mary always loved the bright reds and oranges that refracted in the sky. They’d always sit on the roof of their old house and she’d tell them stories and that was the kind of memories that Dean cherished. He hadn’t the heart much to do it since everything in his world had fallen apart.

Out in the open space, Dean was able to contemplate his situation more than if he were in the shower: He and Castiel had been kicking ass with Pons training and Drivesuit testing, in any case. If officer training had booted a considerable amount of recruits prior to first cuts, it was this end of the curriculum that narrowed the list down even further. Dean knew the Marshal was starting to worry; sometimes the most unexpected trainees get scrubbed during this exercise.

So when the group of twelve became six, Marshal John Winchester didn’t hesitate to ready the co-pilots for logging in some Pons time. The PPDC had Jaegers to assign to the remaining co-pilots, scheduled to be launched between weeks of the cadet promotion and months thereafter. That knowledge only made them work harder and more efficiently. But what was the actual reason for it? They trained hard because, supposedly, the best teams got first-pick and stationed sooner. The other co-pilot duos had to wait until other Jaegers opened up after their launch date.

Soon enough, months to graduation became weeks, became days. Dean was anxious for February to finish.

* * *

Meg Masters and Ruby Kristie were appointed to Chrome Brutus after its April launch. Benny Laffitte and Cole Trenton were transferred out to the new Australian Shatterdome the following month, having been assigned to Vulcan Specter. Much to the others’ chagrin, Adam Milligan and Nick Gage were sent to China in late-June with their Jaeger, Shaolin Rogue.

Dean noticed the three-storey ‘bots were being churned off the assembly line with greater speed and efficiency. A mere year ago, months punctuated the time between each launch date. But he also noticed that he and Castiel have been incredibly impatient; they were weeks away from being able to see that they were real Rangers. Gipsy Danger was waiting for them, and she was beautiful.

* * *

The times hadn’t been particularly kind to Sam Winchester, but they were manageable. Considering that he had had the misfortune of living through two separate kaiju attacks and trudged through them without so much as a few scrapes, he was doing pretty okay. He was in one piece, at least -- that counted toward something, right? Was it third time’s the charm?

It was the first time in a long while that every considerably major country around the world had agreed on banding together for one grave cause; to build and establish Shatterdomes along the coastlines of the Pacific Ocean in order to house the Jaegers that had begun to launch and get battle-ready.

It seemed to Sam that every single news outlet, every late-night host, and every television network felt it was their sacred, predestined duty to cover the happenings with the whole thing. Sure, they all were, in well-known fact, _paid_ to do those things, but there were more than enough other topics that were just as newsworthy. New interests and events occurred on a daily basis, from all around the world, but to Sam, it appeared as if the _only_ news on anything recently had been surrounding the Pan-Pacific Defense or the Jaeger Program. Everything was literally Shatterdomes and interviews and Jaegers and kaiju -- and even when Sam felt as if he longed to be back in the throng and bustle of things, he didn’t want to be back under his father’s looming shadow. What had  happened with John was typically the only thing that stood in the way of the young Winchester doing just that, going back. Luckily, Bobby Singer was kind enough to take him in.

Over the past few months following his departure from the Jaeger Academy, Sam and millions of others stood witness to the grandeur development that was the Los Angeles Shatterdome. Though it wasn’t the first fully-functioning Shatterdome that the Defense Corps had put up, it was the first one in the continental United States. The LA ‘Dome went up and running back in July. The second-born son could still distinctly remember being in that rowdy and condensed crowd with Bobby; he remembered watching as they cut the ceremonial ribbon to officially open the building, watching his father wear that fake smile and say those fake words of niceties. Everything that man attempted to do nowadays was extremely not real --  at least, that was Sam’s point of view. After their falling out, everything little thing his father had done from that point on irritated him.

Some would have said that it was the boy who had left the Corps because of a mentality break -- whatever that meant -- even if that was nowhere near the truth. In fact, not many even knew _where_ Sam went afterward, when he had flown out of Alaska. Being that he was still considered a minor, he went to the one person he could count on, rain, hail, or shine.

The kid was sitting down in a plastic chair inside of a musty car shop. Cars and trucks lined the very innards of the place. The garage’s doors of Bobby’s Auto Repair were opened, allowing for the California breeze to fill the building. It was the perfect kind of weather for surfing and the like.

“Sammy, grab me that beer, will ya?”

Or if you were Bobby Singer, who looked for any reason to keep his electricity bill down, it was the opportune car-repairing weather.

“Can’t you reach?” Sam replied to the question bluntly, angling his head down to the underside of the Shelby Mustang.

“Boy, do you wanna keep that pretty face of yours pretty? Because I suggest--” There was a pause, and the clattering of sturdy tools was followed by some choice words that even a sailor’s mother would have disapproved of. “Just hand me the damn beer.”

Sam snorted an amused laugh as he stood up and reached for the ice cooler, leaning over to grab one of the many bottles. He waited for Bobby to roll out from under the vehicle.

Bobby Singer pretty much raised the kid like his own flesh and blood, and Sam never quit calling him “Uncle Bobby” anyway. He was nice enough to give Sam a job when he needed it, even though he wasn’t too involved with cars from the get-go; but he was good with keeping the books and payroll under control, so Bobby kept him around. Sam was the kind of kid who pursued adventures in the literary nature, as if it wasn’t obvious. There was no shadow of a doubt that Sam Winchester was book smart, but when the time came for a specific requirement, he learned to be street smart, too.

The small television was sat in the corner of the shop, where some ratty and old seats were placed to make up for the less than accommodating waiting room for the customers. Sam hadn’t paid much attention to the thing after a commercial about the Pan-Pacific Defense Corps had appeared, but Bobby was glued to it after he got out from under the hot rod.

Sam still couldn’t believe it had already been a year since Dean’s wild idea of enlisting into the Jaeger Program; it seemed like only yesterday that his own father disowned him. It didn’t help his state of rest to see live coverage of the Marshal being interviewed at the LA ‘Dome again. When he had heard that the Program’s Commend Marshal, its liaisons, a PPDC board member, and whoever else it was that arrived were coming to Los Angeles, he had kept his head down and tried to make sure that Bobby didn’t feel the seething distaste resonating from him. Sam tried to ignore the television set, even when footage from the last kaiju attack on October 17, only a few days prior, had aired again.

Sam eerily remembered that day, and he knew that Bobby recalled it even further. He was sleeping-in for the first time since he began working with Bobby when it happened.

It was like an average day for a single father and his of-age son. The old man was in the kitchen making a late breakfast for himself and the kid that Sunday at noontime. After he let the eggs fry in the pan and turned on the toaster to heat some waffles, Bobby passed by the living room to turn the television on to the news, just to have some kind of background noise as he worked. It was a better ambiance than Sam’s loud and obnoxious snoring.

The kaiju warning alarm had gone off from the television in the front room. It was so loud Bobby jumped, dropping the hot pan and tossing the fried eggs everywhere in the stove.

“ _Balls_ ,” he hissed, immediately having the urge to throw in the towel. But his stomach was growling like a dog and if he didn’t make their breakfast soon, he was gonna pull out his wallet and spend money on fast food -- and a lot of it.

“-- _Reports say Gipsy Danger had been deployed earlier, when the signature was picked up on the Defense Corps sensors. The kaiju, code-named Yamarashi, was targeted fifty miles off the coast of Long Beach. If it makes it past the Miracle Mile Line, the Los Angeles Shatterdome will put the Matador Fury team into the action_ …”

And it took him another second to get his bearings -- _the kaiju alarm just went off_.

He had been shutting off the electrical stove and deciding to finally get everything together when the alarms began to sound around the block. Bobby rushed to wake Sam up; he ran down the hall to his bedroom and threw the door open.

Bobby had shaken Sam’s shoulder roughly, panic already seeping into his bones. “Boy, wake up, dammit. Can’t you hear the damn alarm?”

“What?” Sam groggily awoke, his shaggy hair standing in every direction; the pillow under his head soaked through. When he looked at Bobby’s expectant and just-too-annoyed facial expression and heard the alarms ringing, his eyes had widened. “A drill--”

“No, kid, it’s real. Let’s go. Bring the truck out back, and make sure that the bike’s in the bed.”

They had ran out of the house and hopped into Bobby’s rust bucket of a Chevrolet. Sam had pushed his Harley up the built-in ramp of the back of the truck. They’d pulled out onto the pavement. Bobby was aiming for downtown Los Angeles, where one of the bunker type places that the city tax dollars took to make. Everyone filed out of their houses and apartments like ants marching toward salvation.

Once they got onto a city block, it was evident that the traffic was turning the roads into a grid-lock. Impatient drivers had started to honk their horns; many even opted to leave the safety of their vehicles and ran out, which only led to further clogging up of the city streets.

Bobby, as skilled a driver as he was, wove his way in and out of the maze of automobiles. After a while, they were driving fine. There were a few obstructions and even more fleeing citizens. When they had gotten near to the freeway, the lanes much resembled a car park during the evening of Black Friday. From miles on ahead of them, countless of hundreds of vehicles stood invisible in the streets. Another problem for another day -- if the cars survive the attack, wherever the kaiju would land, they’d somehow find their property and mosey on home like nothing happened.

The supposedly half-hour trip from the world-renowned city of Los Angeles to Long Beach took forever, in Sam’s mind. Both he and Bobby figured the people had aimed for the nearby shelters already, maxing out the space. At the time before the kaiju attacks had gained frequency and were happening more often, a lot of people were complaining and whining about the construction of the shelters, but they weren’t doing it now that their safety was almost guaranteed by the thing.

Has Sam mentioned he hated hypocrites?

With already limited space to weave between the stalled vehicles, they decided to abandon their Chevy and use the Harley-Davidson to continue on. Sam got out the helmets and handed the black one to the elder man.

He checked the box in the back of the truck again after he helped Bobby roll down the bike. And the one thing left inside was -- _goddamn, why did he have a pink helmet?_ “Really?” Sam snapped in guffaw, raising the pink head-guard so Bobby could see it. “Was there some _lady friend_ I should know about?”

“Just suck it up and put the damn helmet on, Sammy.” Bobby revved the motor with the sharp flick of his hand. “Now unless you want to be kaiju chow, I’d hop on.”

They rode down the fast lane, which was bereft of cars save for a car or two done over easy. Bobby, even in his age, was fast with his reflexes and could move just easily enough. He threaded the motorbike between the derelict traffic on the roadway. Sam held onto the seat for dear life, always having hated riding with Bobby.

That old man almost didn’t give a damn about traffic rules, especially less so when the state was in danger.

Sam had only gone to turn his head, watching as Long Beach passed him by. The traffic had subsided given as the cars stopped working, and it appeared as if the local underground shelters were filling up fast with many people of California seeking refuge. The sea was a shining, blue carpet that waved him goodbye. But after about five miles sewing in and out of stalled vehicles and back alleys, Sam noticed a bulge from the ocean; one so unnatural he knew what it was. Panic flowed through him faster than a dam’s waters after an explosion.

“Fuck--”

“Language, dammit,” Bobby chastised ironically. But then he looked to his side and saw Yamarashi break through the waters, parts of it being revealed as the waves fanned out. He hit the gas and tried to move between the cars even quicker, if at all possible.

Yamarashi was a huge, green piece of shit that seemed to have four eyes and a long snout unbelievably flat. It stalked to the shore slowly, but its gait was enormous enough to seem hasty. The kaju closed the distance from the sea to shore unexpectedly fast.

Bobby, like the sailor mouthed man that he was, belted out two words that even Sam could decipher from the speeding winds. “Holy shit!”

Sam only thought that Bobby had reacted to the advance of the kaiju, but when he turned his head, he saw the outline of a giant-sized robot action figure coming at them. He wasn’t able to hear the roaring of the Jumphawk blades until they passed over them, dragging around a hovering shadow that blocked the light from the sun for a few seconds. Sam recognized that mecha anywhere; Sam knew who was in that Jaeger, and a small flicker of peace sparked in him, pushing away the fright.

The helicopters released the cables that were attached to the Jaeger that was named Gipsy Danger only a few blocks away. Her frame dropped a short distance, its weight thundering and shaking the streets, shattering windows of nearby buildings and vehicles, tripping an unknown number of car alarms.

The dust and sand settled enough to let her armor shine with the light above. The Navy blue of her hull was a sight for sore eyes. Every little detail that was emblazoned on the Jaeger was the pinnacle of the world, the sign in the sky that their lives were in the hands of a god-like, thundering machine that had the capabilities of fending off the worst of those monsters that arose from the other side of the Breach.

Bobby pulled at the throttle and almost threw himself into the handlebars, as if doing that would assist with the speed at which he hoped to achieve. The grip Sam had on the bike tightened enough for his knuckles to turn white; eventually, his hands had begun to cramp in its position, but he kept on. He sure as hell wasn’t going to fall off of that fucking bike, not when his big brother was in that Jaeger trying to protect the likes of him.

Yamarashi’s low-pitched snarl was too loud to be anything from an animal in this world. It came to shore, crossing the beach in only a few large steps, coming to the bluff almost without any effort. Its hind and forelegs scrambled the side of the hill to find purchase and move forward, dragging down chunks of the dirt to haul itself up to confront Gipsy Danger. It swatted at the air in between the two of them, flinging off a cloud of bristles at the armor. Though some deflected, the rest prickled Gipsy Danger’s armor like a forest of splinters. Yamarashi lived up to its name.

Bobby weaved between the falling leftovers of the gargantuan porcupine needles, going in and out of the vehicles and ten-foot spikes in the broken road. More continued to fall still, looking less like hairs and more like an overly abundant volley of arrows. The noise was ear-splitting and horrific as the spikes landed on the cars and trucks --   _thunk, thunk, thunk, WAIL WAIL WAIL._ It stabbed into the pavement and lanced onto the hoods and through the roofs of vehicles.

Sam was forced to close his eyes, squeamish, when he saw some of the bystanders running on foot be skewered mid-step. Their screams cut-off, but the sound of mangled flesh and bone irked him. The bodies would have fallen to the ground if it weren’t for the needle-like spikes. Their bodies stood up vertically, almost like in one of the horror games Sam remembered playing when he was younger. (What was it? _Outlast_?) Bobby still moved between the continually falling things, barely missing a few himself.

Up ahead, a man fled from his skewered car in desperation and fear. Sam had a heavy feeling in the pit of his stomach, and the same fear that reflected in the man’s fearful eyes was felt by him. He had scrounged for something in his pockets as they approached, and Bobby stopped the Harley as a pistol aimed right at them.

They froze.

The man began shouting at them in Spanish, waving his gun forward threateningly. Sam could understand a few words here or there -- mostly the curse words -- but it was obvious even without the language barrier that he was giving the two of them a choice: die or die.

Sam took the chance to hop off of the bike when Bobby slowed down enough, trying to calm down the man as well as he could with what Spanish he knew. Sure it was mediocre, but he wasn’t dead yet, that was for sure. But the man had all the patience of a frayed powerline, still shouting with uncertainty in the staccato language.

When all hope was gone, Sam was sure he was going to die. He always thought he’d die of old age, or even at the hand of a kaiju, but no, he was seconds away from his brains spraying across the freeway.

The man’s arm was hooked around under his chin, the barrel of the gun pressed against his temple. When he cocked the gun, Sam heard something -- or, rather, nothing. “Bobby--” He tried to warn him, but the man hopped off the Harley with his hands up.

They’d surrendered their only chance of survival to the man, who only roared away from the action and dangerous vicinity of the kaiju and Jaeger.

For a moment and a moment only, Sam was in shock. “What the _fuck_ did you do that for?”

“He was going to shoot you if I didn’t!” Bobby argued, almost incredulous at Sam’s disdain and inquiry. He grabbed the boy’s arm and pulled him down the chaotic freeway, making a beeline to the other side of the way where the condos were to the sea.

He pulled his arm free. “The gun was empty!” Sam started pumping his arms, taking longer strides and almost leaving Bobby behind. He looked back and felt a lump go down his throat as the sounds of battle raged on.

“Even still, he could’ve been packing. We were a heartbeat from dead, boy!”

“We still _are_!”

Bobby looked back and watched Yamarashi circle Gipsy Danger again, its back to the fleeing humans, appearing to be one or two blocks closer than before. They needed to get as far away from the place as possible, and there was next to no way to do that. Having taken to the direction of the water, both of them almost tripped over a dead body simultaneously, forcing themselves to look to where they were headed: forward. Sam could only hear the blasts coming from Gipsy Danger’s gauntlet. Explosions. He ducked and covered his head.

There was a deafening boom when Gispy Danger’s fist slammed into Yamrashi’s ugly mug. From the sunlight, a mist of blue was seen. The blue cloud fell slowly, almost like a drifting cloud of purple rain -- a gloppy sound was heard before slight sizzles. The Kaiju Blue had started to become toxic quickly. Their clothes became sprayed in the blue hue, thankfully not reaching their skin so thoroughly.

Yamarashi staggered back and demolished an apartment complex just off the freeway, taking a few more down with it.

Bobby’s voice was gruff, and scared, and the rubble that cascaded between the distance just reminded them of how close the battle had become. “They’re getting closer… Pick up the pace, dammit!” He pushed Sam forward and they ran faster. They ran to the edge of the sea bluff, where the noises of screams and wailing vehicle alarms and ruckus from the fight could still reach. “C’mon, Sammy, let’s go.”

The two of them slid partway down the broken bluff, stopping where a wide, concrete pipe had protruded from the earth. Both of them had the same thought -- _take cover_. Sam helped Bobby into the drainage pipe before freezing his motion. They had found the pipe stuffed with other people, helpless and huddled together in the concrete cave, crammed all the way back into where even the light couldn’t touch them.

The drainage pipe would shudder and shake, and dust would come falling onto the lot of them, but everyone was quiet for the most part -- not that a sound they’d make would catch the attention of the looming danger. Sam dared to look outside, finding a curiosity in him more than suicidal. He craned his head out and looked straight upwards, catching an eye full of the fight. Now, there were not one but two Jaegers that were going toe to toe with the kaiju. The Matador Fury team had been deployed.

Man, machines, and monsters. They were towering over them like colossal giants and titans. Their feet were just too close to them; they’d gone back toward the sea, standing on top of the freeway they used as their field of battles. Cars on the street were being pulverized. The heads of Yamarashi and Gipsy Danger and Matador Fury were so far up that they became blurred, over three hundred feet up and incredibly distant. Matador sent a barrage of missiles at the kaiju, but it did nothing to defeat it.

High overhead, Yamarashi opened its jaw wide enough that could measure to Niagara Falls. The roar came out, and then was muffled when Gipsy aimed the arm cannon down the monster’s gullet and emptied the clip into it. _Boom, boom, boom, boom_ \-- it was chronic until it wasn’t. Sam sat frozen with his head turned up, watching with wide eyes as the back of the kaiju’s head exploded. Bobby grabbed him by the collar of the shirt and pulled him into the safety of the pipe just as the corpse of the thing fell into the sandy road. Meat and kaiju blue followed almost immediately, polluting everything within a certain parameter with its grossness.

And then it was quiet.

And then Yamarashi rolled into the bluff, blocking the opening for a few moments before rolling off once more.

As the bitter-sweet silence settled all around them, Sam staggered out of the pipe with Bobby following right behind him, nearly slipping on the kaiju blood that drenched the ground. They glanced down at the remains of the fallen kaiju before turning up to the ashen skies once more, upon hearing the propellers that came attached to the V-50 Jumphawks. The group of piloted helicopters hovered over the sentinel Jaegers after they powered down, preparing the airlift back to the Los Angeles Shatterdome for minute repairs. Sam knew after that trip that Gipsy Danger would be brought back to The Ice Box.

The other bystanders, all shaken and frightened, started to crawl out of the concrete pipe. Sam scrambled up the bluff and to the broken streets of the freeway. Sirens from police cruisers and ambulances overlapped the loudspeakers of the crowds trying to corral the people back. He looked over to what used to be the traffic jam; it was like flattened graveyard of the corpses of man and machine, with the marks of huge footprints in their wake. Metal and steel was pressed into the sagging, fractured road. Bobby came to his side at an indiscernible amount of time, albeit slowly. The two of them followed the path of destruction and devastation up the roadway where the sea-side buildings had slumped over.

Sam was shaking, breathing heavily, soaked in his own sweat and splattered by the kaiju’s blood. He was in shock due to both what he endured and what he remembered. Bobby had rested a hand on his shoulder in a comforting gesture. Neither one of them spoke until paramedics got close, asking the generic questions and offering Sam a shock blanket, to which he refused.

The ambulances were bringing the severely injured to the closest hospitals around the way -- well, the ones that were not too full or damaged, anyway. Sam could see the faces of anguish, despair, denial -- all of which he knows how to replicate by the detail; he knew how they all had felt that day.

When they were alone again, Sam sighed out, “He doesn’t know how close he was to killing us.”

“Cut them some slack; they defeated that sum’bitch. The boys didn’t know--”

“Not them, Bobby. John. It’s always John.”

It was then that Sam figured the elder man realized how much John Winchester had messed up his kids; how distant and cold he was to make the second-born nearly desensitized to the ordeal.

In the now, he could remember that Anchorage’s Gipsy Danger team had been deployed to take on the latest kaiju when it surfaced. Eventually, LA’s Matador Fury team engaged as back-up, but the kaiju ultimately was slain by Gipsy’s co-pilots. And whose faces were inside of that Jaeger? The same ones whose faces were displayed on the screen: Dean Winchester and Castiel Novak.

A gruff scoff came from Bobby’s general direction. “Well, would’ya look at that. The kid looks like a shiny Ken Doll.”

Sam gave an almost condescending laugh.

“That should be you up there, kiddo,” the man told him, turning his head to see the eighteen-year-old’s reaction. “Followin’ in your old man’s footsteps or shit like that.”

“The same old man who booted me in the first place?” Sam gave Bobby an incredulous look, raising an eyebrow. He shook his head. “I’d rather think not.”

Bobby took a sip from his bottle before muttering, “Toosh.”

“What?”

“Toosh -- to what you said. Good point well made.”

“It’s _touché_ \-- you know what, never mind,” the young Winchester huffed.

Turning his attention back to the television, he watched as his big brother worked his charm on the reporters. He always had a way with wooing the audience, or whatever, even if he hated seeing his face everywhere. Sam couldn’t blame him; the billboards and advertisements that were displayed around the country used him as the new, fresh face of the Jaeger Program. From a marketing standpoint, Dean was the obvious choice:

He was not only the Marshal’s son and a skilled Ranger, but he was photogenic and had that so-called “sex appeal.” It made Sam want to throw up and laugh at the same time.

As the interviews continued to roll, one question attracted his hearing. “ _Have you been in contact with your brother, Sam, since he left?_ ” The answer was a big, fat **_NO_** , but the one in question was keen on finding out if Dean would lie just to cover their asses.

Dean’s eyes flickered directly to the camera closest to him. He turned to look at Castiel for a moment or two -- an exchange of glances passed between them, though subtle -- before he decided to answer. “ _Honestly_ ,” he started, “ _it’s been a while since I’ve heard from Sammy. As much as I do miss the kid, he’s of age now and probably has his life together again, unlike folks like me_.”

 _I do, do I?_ Sam thought spitefully. _Guess not seeing my brother and father for a year means life-togetherness._

The reporter, Naomi What’s-Her-Face, forced a laugh, probably thinking that Dean was kidding. “ _You’re a great Ranger, Dean; you and Castiel both. And Yamarashi’s simple proof of that_.” She started to ask about suit specifics or some cliche with the Program just to hold their encounter a little longer.

Sam had started to ignore the TV when he heard his name. However, it wasn’t Bobby called him. “ _Sammy, if you’re watching_ ,” Dean said to the camera, “ _I hope you’re living it up. We miss you up here in the Ice Box._ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sincere apologies on my end for not updating in a couple months! I think I've made it up a smidge with this lengthy chapter. :) ~ Shalina


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